Eat You

Eat You

I want to eat you. I want to swallow your soul and devour everything that makes you who you are. From the tips of your long dirty-blonde hair all the way down to the stubby big toe on your right foot. I want to eat the way you need six sports bras in order to exercise. I want to consume the way you turn your back when you’re changing but then look at me looking at you from the corner of your eye. And don’t forget the words you always seem to mush together so perfectly when we argue. I want to eat the way you can spread apart all of your toes and pick up just about anything with them. Even with the stubby one, my favorite. I want to eat all the spontaneous ideas for Halloween costumes you come up with all year long; they never disappoint. I want to eat the way you put your hair up before we have sex. I want to consume every pair of flip flops you own and digest you wearing them in the middle of a snowed-in winter. The musical part of you will taste amazing, I imagine. I even want the sand in between your bedsheets to grind between my teeth like diamonds. The summer skin and the tanlines, too; all of you that is our favorite season. I want to eat your gluteus maximus and how it looks when you lay on your stomach. I want to eat every article of clothing and fashion accessory you own; the headbands, the heels I won’t let you wear because they make you taller than me, the t-shirts declaring your level of awesomeness, the tanktops that show cleavage. No, scratch that, especially those tank tops. Your sunglasses worn at night. I want to eat your night moves. Everything. I even want to eat every piece of sea glass you’ve ever collected. I just want our souls to exist together for an eternity plus some. Deep down inside they will live together, powering us like batteries. These little balls of purple and blue light, twisting and hugging and touching. They will oxidize us and sync our heartbeats. Because the universe is massive and daunting but when our souls are together it all makes sense and we serve a purpose. So don’t ask why. Don’t ask when. Don’t ask anything. Just enjoy the ride down the back of my esophagus.