I. Want. Soft sighs of satisfaction. Sunnyside up Sunday mornings
filled with forty-two across.
Wool socks that soothe
like tea on a New England morn’.
To feel invisible and connected
to every person swooshing past on a city street.
I. Want. A covered porch to safely watch
the thunderclouds grumble in and flashes of light jet across the sky.
Knee-high, gold grass to wade in,
while humming a tune with no name.
To travel without abandon; to let my eyes wander.
To and fro. To and fro.
And effortlessly meld into the background of wherever I am.
I. Want. To be loved; unequivocally for myself,
for I know not how to be any other.
And, to be infinitely humbled through
loving someone back.
Cold feet to warm upon another.
To hate the snores, the silences
that should and shouldn’t be colored in.
I. Want. To smile without precipice, without malice, without fear.
To tremble at the leaps that make me doubt, and then, to leap.
Cable-knit sweaters whose warmth reminds you that you are loved,
by someone or another.
By someone you don’t even realize.
By someone you take for granted.
To find serenity— peace within the newspaper turmoil;
past the pages of death and destruction,
to the human interest stories that whisper
“Guess what? You’re alive.”