Wishful Thinking

I would be blissful to know that one day you’d have only good things to say to me. I would want you to tell me the night before and to sleep with this anticipation that is enchanting. I would like to wait for the day that, even though I’ d wish it not to fade, I would equally not be afraid of it ending. I would like to be able to look at the sun without my eyes squinting; to sit in the dark with nothing hanging outside the door. I would want all the mistakes to be blithe and all the rights not to be vile. I would like cigarettes not to kill, music not to hurt so. I would want it to be only due to ecstasy every time the eyes lost focus. I would want lips to bend more easily, ideally in harmony with the knees. And to linger, just like the hands ought to.

I would like touch to be less sharp and words less dreary. I would want us to forget nothing but not remember everything. I would like to be able to think of you without being afraid I won’t do all I can. I would want things to be different without changing anything. I would like to expect everything and what I have never to be just another possible option. I would want to have three wishes and not be able to even think of one to make. In the sound of the word “serenity”, I would like to remember instead of yearn. I would want to carry my body instead of being carried into it. I would like to see things from within, having no idea how they should be. I don’t necessarily want to be happy; it is enough for me to think that I am.

P.S. I could probably come up with some form of wordplay with the word “mist”, Ms Carole King.


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