I want to pour you thirteen cups of tea,
strawberry and cranberry, twirling, swirling,
like your voice braided into my daydreams,
songs made of honey, my memories vowen into your stories,
as we make tomorrow something we do together.
I want to make you raspberry brownies
and hot chocolate like my mormor used to make it –
floral aprons and warm milk,
like the smells in the café we’ll own one day.
I want to see poetry slip across your lips
and art in hands on hips,
paintbrush nails across naked skin
resting next to each other;
I want to yell at stars with you
like people have always yelled at stars.
I do not know what astronauts eat,
but if they eat freeze dried cheese on toast I want to eat that with you,
our helmets resting next to us on the ceiling,
and as we pull the covers around us in our spaceship,
I want to be next to you in bed so close
that when you turn around I’m already in your arms,
your hand across my waist,
your thumb rubbing fairy tales into my stomach.
I want to leave kisses on your fingertips
and never be wasteful with the touches on your eyelids.
I pull your arms around me.