I want to be
the soft padding of bare feet
on a bare floor
in the afternoon.
Or the knotted up-on-top-of-head hair
of a braless woman
who couldn’t care—
doesn’t give two shits about it all.
Except her pen.
And maybe her man.
Hot damn.
Her beautiful
glorious
hard-legg-ed
hardworking man—
who doesn’t understand
but loves
goddamn
does he love her.
I want
to be what spills over—
spills over the arms of an old armchair—
long, languid limbs with a light dusting of hair—
(the kind that refuse to be kept in)
slung together with sinews and skin
and opaque prose.
I want to be
those eyes stained dark.
The kind that seem to hover above
a passing remark
about “the world”
and nonchalantly carry a stained,
cracked cup
ringed black from perpetual coffee. no cream.
I want to be
thick with thought.
I want to be
dark laughter
with a purpose.
And I want to know that I am.