I know it seems superfluous that I should want for my own pair of striped pajamas. It is so useless and silly because we both know I will steal your top, or bottoms and parade around on Saturday mornings making feasts to break our fast.
We both know I will steal your wool socks, and worn in sweatshirts. Your button ups are not safe from my wanting gaze. Your boots receive my feet in hurried movements when I rush outside to walk the dog or shoo away a possum. Your pants slide smoothly onto me when I pull them on to run an errand, hanging low on my hips baggy, cuffed at the bottom. Your wardrobe will be our wardrobe, you willingly agreed to this the first moment you let me borrow your shirt. You agreed the first time you said I love you.
You, knowing I am selfish in my love. I want love, not for myself but for the us that is never defined and never complete. We are continually shaped beings. My angle of you will never full reveal you, and your angle of me will show you only one side. But know I too have limited angles of myself. Know I will love you. That I do love you. You know. Or you will.
Know that my love is celebrated in the moments I wear what belongs to you. The moments I carry you more than in my heart but on my body. We are not one, we are not fused together, but the moments when I don yours, it feels so right, as though there is no distinction, you are a part of me.
Your kind of woman.