a younger, youthful version of me
had longings.
one was to have the power of invisibility,
to ghost like, and unreal.
milky, like painting a canvas with a base
and dipping the brush back into ***** waters.

another was to have a large collection of books,
that released a nostalgic, musky aroma
whenever my head felt too empty.

an older, wiser (though not by much) version of me
now longs for fiction. an empty meadow that
spreads far and wide;
which would be the perfect companion
to the two story shoe box i never owned.

conversations with nature and with
the pajandrum of my mind, are
things i will always long for, an older
wiser version of me would surely agree.
she'd say, "i still long for it now."

i would long for silly things
and me, now, longs for
even sillier things.
but i'm also serious.

and looking back,
the things i long for are not silly at all.

all i wish for is to lay down in the chrysanthemums
and to look up from the bottom of the valley,
and to fall backwards into my thoughts.

another is to lay my hand
gently over another's, whenever we get
the opportunity to. or to
dip fingers in the bowl of flour along
with the other baking ingredients,
and make snow land on the other's hair
with a gentle flick of the fingers.

to wake up next to a soft,
gentle face, and a cracked open window
that's letting the fog from outside enter the room
and be the uninvited guest.

linking fingers, or arms,
with that same pajandrum, or simply
the one that i will admire in ways
i dont usually admire others.

my longings are not silly.
wanting a moment of peace is not silly.
wanting to know that when i am
older, wiser,
i will have someone who will love me back.

a younger, youthful version of me would disagree.

i want the older, wiser version of me to say,
"dont worry."
"dont fret."

i want the older, wiser version of me to say,
"you found your moment of peace,
and you found him."