The need for mundane love

There is a street, a cobbled one
Where light falls on your face
And we stand next to each other
Sharing a cigarette

There is a pool, dark and deep
Where you dive in
And we swim by each other
Without touching

There is a restaurant, with a special corner
Where we always sit
And I make boats of tissues
While you read

There is shade on our bedside
That keeps saying yellow
While I drift off
To the sound of your  breath
Everyday

I want to feel done
I want to feel numb
Not even guilt
For walking out on you

I want to love you
So mundane and regularly
I want to us to be so basic
A cliché, a boring story

I want to sit across a table
And not even realise
That we don't talk anymore

I want to sleep next to you
For years and years
And not be touched
Or touch you

I want you like a habit
I need you like a rotting  disease
So that I can
Break up
And move on

But for all this
I need to meet you
I need to like you
I need to love you
I need to adore you
I need to need you

ROOM IN NEW YORK, 1932    
Artwork by

Edward Hopper