"I want you."

"I want you," she wrote in a thick red felt-tip marker.
"Yo quiero tu," she wrote with the same red felt-tip marker on a separate sheet of paper because that's the tongue she was born into. The truth is, she doesn't speak it well and she's ashamed of it.
"Je te veux," she wrote in the same manner, "just in case," she whispered.
And then there was me, brown watered-down eyes peering mercifully onto 3 letters, 3 letters filled with red ink that graciously made 37 incisions into my chest. 3 shifts of the eyes. One meaning in three different languages, "just so it gets through to you," she whispered again, this time with her lips delved into my ear.
But it never ends the way it starts. And it shouldn't. But I wish I didn't get to the bottom so fast. And I wish I didn't realize this was all a dream at, "I want you."