daydream

I want to daydream.

To build great storehouses on the streets that I pass and fill them with canned peaches, whispered touches, and baby curls. I'd make stacks and stacks of mental photographs; monuments to what could be. I'd hoard away hours on hours of pillow talk and not let anyone near them. I'd board myself up and be trapped by made-up good luck. Stuck in truth I decided on myself. I could hide among those shelves, gorging on sunshine and tingles, slowly suffocating from the lack of vehemence. Dirt would gather for lack of crying. White Linen sheets would turn to tatters from waiting. Waiting for God's reality to match my creations.

So instead I think I will enjoy the raw hurt of laughter. I will cry when I am deceived, blush when I am embarrassed, and love those who I stumble into no matter how short a time they walk beside me.