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."