wanted

I have wanted a lot of things during my lifetime, but the most frequent (unfortunately or fortunately — I’m not yet sure) has been him, a pronoun I task with encompassing every crush, relationship, and in -betweenship of mine in the last 30 years. To want something can be scary; to want something out loud can be terrifying. For the thing you want, out loud, to be being wanted back? I have found that to be the ultimate self-sacrifice.

I wanted him to notice me. 
Notice us, really. Big, flashing-red-light noticing, 
our knees brushing, eyes meeting, hearts echoing,
once, twice, a million times,
like magnets. Over glowy laptops and through crowded rooms, 
stopped in his tracks like trains, planes and automobiles 
throwing an emergency brake. To know he saw it, saw me, too, 
that I wasn’t noticing nothing.

I wanted him to want me. 
My jokes and music and friends and needs, 
each sorted into their own box and piled up high. Desperate to hear
the font and size in each of my words,
remembering the way I laughed (and the way I didn’t laugh).
Hungry to look at me over tablescapes
and candle sticks. Wine glasses full and clinking, toasting
to a future of ours around the corner and far away. Talking about me when I wasn’t around, 
when I was around.

I wanted him to think about me.
Conversations that felt like years-long research projects
dipped in fleeting moments. Days, years, texts and Slacks and emails, 
worth a second thought — at least a second thought. 
Wide-eyed and groggy in bed at night
wondering what I was dreaming, not because dreams matter
but because they were mine. 
Bracing his thick skin for the potential impact
of grazing my arm tomorrow. Asking himself
“what advice would she give,”
Picking up the phone and typing, “what advice would you give?”

I wanted him to be someone for me.
The person his heart begged him to be, against the odds
of parental intervention and self-sabotage. Chasing the dreams 
I dreamt for him on days his head couldn’t find a pillow
To make change and take risks, inspired and (un)apologetic.
Trying things, playing things, building things on a foundation 
of us. Time spent trying to crack him open, to show his soul 
to me, to the world, to himself.

I wanted him to feel me.
Thumbing my bottom lip in silence. Eyes speaking (shouting) volumes
when I walked in a room, when I left a room. Elbows and hands
intertwined, face-to-face, back-to-back. 
The small of my back and nape of my neck, warm 
under the trace of finger tips. A feeling not tethered
to my presence, but rather, to the memory of it. 

I wanted him to know me. 
What I hate and what I eat for breakfast (nothing). How I take my coffee
depending on where the sun is. Beating my mind’s leaps to its far-off destination,
based only on the tone with which I’m finishing my sentences. 
Knowing when my heart needs a laugh and when a laugh
could split me in two. Connecting dots that haven’t yet been plotted. 
My comfort movie, my faults, my insecurities — 
the real ones. A deep, bottomless-pit-type of knowing, 
one I’m not sure I wanted him diving into.

I wanted him to choose me.
Instead of her, even when it didn’t make sense,
especially when it didn’t make sense. In tandem with
the career and family and friends. His self-serving bravery
strong enough to sustain the 3,000 miles. Tapping my name
to cry and laugh and yell and dream out loud with. Finally seeing
I chose him and, perhaps, 
choosing me, too.

I wanted him to take me seriously. 
The dreams and the fears too big for daylight. All of the ideas
I spoke into the universe, grounded
in a truth I could clearly see but hadn’t yet come into focus
for anyone else. Every song and article and person I recommended (against)
treated as more than a dismissed push notification.
Believing I was smart and capable, worthy
of being smart and capable. The serious and unserious topics, 
each weighted with a layer of possibility.

I’ve always wanted him to, 
but he hasn’t. So I have.