For the second time, I'm five
watching the rain pelt the ground outside,
contained behind the glass which
fogs with the heat of the kitchen.
My granny laughs at her own jokes,
leaning over the kitchen counter cutting
up vegetables into boiling water.

I want to be caressed, gently bittersweet,
like a lame horse before the
bullet. Hand along my cheek through
ruined fur; expression dripping
ruinous leaks.

I want the same wind that abuses my
clothes to stroke down the
flyaways in my hair. The notes spat
through gusts grimacing
at negligence.

I want to be held onto like a fleeting,
fading memory of a long life lived
still lingering. My eyelashes brushed
off my cheeks-- a wish of
affection, desire.

I want to curl around the sun like
rays of ether. I reach for the stars, their
distant dream, but they offer only
celestial gleam, transparent
light, intangible between
outstretched grasps.

I fantasise of fate, of destiny,
but I'm not sure I can keep waiting
for love to fall into my lap.
I invest in the inevitable
but I'm sick of the meantime, of hating
my friends for what they have through
eyes of spiteful longing.