Last Summer

I want to be the moment you desire.

I want to smile with you under bridges and over mountains of paper, recycled wood; drown in ink, drawings, and words; taste graphite; and become paint. I want to feel the grass at my back and your breath at my shoulder. I want to share something with you that no one else could recapture, even when you’re gone. I want to play at the edge of the well of souls and see your visions, hear your comments and observations, make them my own.

I want to have something pure, yet I would respond to the tainted. I want the good, but I would preserve the selfish.

I want to prove something: that we exist. I have a yearning so strong which claws through interwoven bonds like the slow burning of paper alight. I want you to hear my knocking like a siren’s cry and understand my gaze in that of a child’s.

I wish you could forget where you’re bound.

I want to damage time, cruelly force it to turn back, with a violence that is not my own, but a borrowed vehemence and guilt and shame. I wish you had heard my laughter and seen my energy, met me when everything was fine, even when it was not. I wish you had tamed my cries of joy and wonder and amazement, with yours of passion, fueled and transformed it into something absolutely raw and good, not skipped it and left a barren space of dreams.

I want you to experience this strumming in my chest and feel this breeze brushing away my sweat. I just want to share it, that’s all.

I want to lose myself in your embrace.