I wish to be wealthy in time
to hoard it in boxes and jars
that are blue and caked in
fine powder, to keep seconds
in a piggy bank that is cracked
open every year on my birthday,
when I am excited to learn that
a year of saving yielded more
than just one or two minutes.

I wish to surf my history
to return to the moments when
it was possible to ride my
bicycle across town in 15 minutes,
when I would laugh at serious
notions and pass off my days
shielded from the rain in a
twisted building with wooden
chairs and faded couches.

I wish to lay down across days
stretching my arms up across
the calendar, reclaiming the
moments I spent staring at the
wall, falling into songs sung
just for me, wondering if I would
ever make it out alive, wondering
if the purple would stain the sheets.

I wish to return to a particular
hour that yielded the sharpest
spike in self-discovery, when I
laid with you and listened to
those songs I had heard over and
over so many times and watched
before my eyes them take on
new meaning, watched them
change the way it looked outside
my window and where my
reflection used to seem dull and
glassy I saw a glow reminiscent
of candle wax and silver beads
and box stools.