Sometimes I wish I could just stop time so I could catch my breath and my feelings.
Sometimes I wish I could be drawn away to a cabin on the shore, where I’d only have a library nook, a puppy, and ample time to learn to cook.
Sometimes I wish I could just float in the ocean, my head back with the water silencing the world from my ears and my legs slowly swaying with the waves.
Sometimes I wish everywhere felt like sitting inside a coffee shop, where the sounds of chatter and keyboard taps filled my ears and every piece of my environment is a gallery of art.
Sometimes I wish I could always lie in bed with my blanket swallowing my body as the sun sets through the window, the rays sliding down each shade as I fall in and out of sleep.
I wish that someone would yearn to taste my lips forever and trace every inch of my body with their fingertips late at night when the birds have gone to sleep and the stars and moon are awake.
Sometimes I wish I could fix the world’s problems, that there would be no more hate or fear. Then I believe myself to be naive and think, What would be relative to love?
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a body or a face so that I could walk outside without anxiety. No one stopping their car to look at me or men trying to kiss me without ever learning of the things I dream about or the things that make me feel lonely.
Sometimes I lay on the cold floor, not wanting or wishing to fix anything, not even my own problems, instead wishing to disappear for a while, coming back when I’m ready rather than being constantly dragged by ticking clocks.
Sometimes I wish I could share openly about the thoughts I have about grief and death — and therefore about love — where I could be a part of someone’s healing so it would make both of us feel less alone.
Most of the time, I wish I saw the potential others saw in me, and sometimes I wish others saw the potential I see in myself.
There are times I wish I could be as unaware and oblivious as others seem to be, where choosing joy and happiness daily didn’t seem like such an exhausting chore.
Sometimes I wish I understood more—more of something. Or maybe I had more of something.
But I wish for more.