I want all of him – the large hands with scars that excited me, his nimble grace, how I feel when he touches me, his strangeness, his thoughts, his hair, how he looks at me, his stubbled jaw, the way his eyes crinkles when he laughs, his unexpectedness and familiarity, every secret I’ve yet to discover, mundane details of his life I’ve yet to take for granted, even the traits that I dislike and I know in time, had we the time, would make me hate him, his arrogance and conceit, his faithlessness, his maddeningly cryptic remarks – I want it all. But I want it all to myself. I don’t want to share.