I don’t want to be your secret

 

I don’t want to be a secret phone call that ends as the sun rises. I want to be your early morning alarm that is allowed to be loud in your bedroom. I want to be your person.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be your ink pen that is locked away, kept only for the days you want to get your hands dirty. I want to be that little blue pen you use on a bright afternoon to write your grocery list. I want to be your boring errands.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the letters you keep in locked drawers. I want to be those unread flyers that lie under the cracks of your apartment door days together for the world to see. I want to be seen.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the tattoo that is hidden away in your weakest spot. I want to be the watch that clasps your wrist like it belongs. I want to belong.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the song that plays in your iPod after the lights are switched off. I want to be the song that plays loudly on your cars stereo. I want to be heard.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to smell like the fresh breath mints you choose to camouflage the smell of smoke.  I want to be the perfume that sticks to your body for the rest of the day. I want to be felt in the air around you.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be the sinful piece of chocolate on a cheat day in your diet. I want to be the lollipop you weren’t afraid to lick in daylight. I want to be tasted with unashamed passion.

I don’t want to be your secret. I don’t want to be pages from the dairy of an awkward adolescent, locked away from everyone’s eyes. I want to be the book you flaunt on your office desk to define who you are. I want to define.

I don’t want to be your secret.

I don’t want to be your muse. I don’t want to be your happy place. I don’t want to be your vacation. I don’t want to be your exotic.

I want to be your everyday order of Starbucks. I want to be the Chinese takeaway you love for dinner. I want to be the pen that stops working when you really need it to.

I want to be the cab that takes you home. I want to be those little threads of unease on your otherwise creaseless shirt. I want to be your overused favourite tie.

I want to be everything that is you and everything that you ever will be. I want to be your boring old routine that you do over and over again with a furrow on your forehead.

 




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