I want you

I want to give you fruit trees
for the barely green space
that'll never be an orchard
outside your flat,
to grow roots from two feet
in permitted parking spaces,
never leaking fuel,
to make a halo
from cardboard and LEDs
in my dining room,
one you can lift up to the sky
and let the light pour through
fork made crafter holes
when you're lonesome.
I want to be inside your
stretched, pumped veins
in the middle of winter,
to sing and kiss
all the air about you
with my troubled lungs,
watch a utopia occur
between rooftops,
us sat on the back
of a whittled bench.
I want to watch your joy grow
wild and wide and vulnerable and free,
to cascade down as dark, brunette hair
longing to grey, waiting to grey,
staining itself with desire,
to be a totem or stone
or piece of art gifted
as decoration rested
between dusting books.
I want your happiness
to be an emblem of our time,
for my energy to rub
against those steel bones,
make sparks from friction,
to be loved and love equally
with the plain affection of a child,
who never let their heart pound
the way birds do,
and if then the world
becomes a playground
only to us, well,
what harm could it do?