Confessions: With You


I want to light deadened dandelions on fire with you. We'd watch them burn and sizzle - color flaming up and out.

I want to go camping with you. We'd lay, heads next to each other but feet pointing in opposite directions, in our sleeping bags watching stars peek their way out of the darkness.  

I want to eat cake with you. Or pancakes. Or both. They'd be pancake-cakes. We'd wear flour on our shirts and cover each panfried delectable with homemade cream cheese frosting. You'd be reluctant at first, stating that pancakes were never meant to meld with traditional, frosted cake. You'd argue this point whilst I inhale three, and even though I make no retort, you can't help but notice the frosting on my bottom lip. And so you'd give in.

I want to build a tree house with you.  We'd start small - something resembling that which we wished we had during our awkward middle school years. After a handful of weekends, our limbed architectural feat would excite us, and we'd quit our day jobs so we could build more extravagantly. 

I want to go skinny dipping with you. We'd strip our clothes off and race the length of the dock - simultaneously hoping to be the first in the water but the last to be seen. 

I want to make a piñata with you. We'd take turns spinning each other around and around until we claimed through laughter that we were going to puke. I'd watch you finally hit the damn thing - the shitty, paper mache, slightly concave balloon shape - down to the ground. Confetti made from Sunday Comics would flutter down, and all too quickly, the game would be over.

I want to watch movies with you. We'd forego the theater (because the arm rests don't raise) for stove-popped popcorn and hot cocoa in your messy bed. Twenty minutes in, the small computer screen at our feet wouldn't be paid much attention. 

I want to go cross country with you. In every country. We'd backpack and make no plans. We'd eat simple meals and meet extraordinary people - people that would challenge and change us throughout the trip. We'd share breathtaking views and our histories with each other.

I want to rake leaves with you. We'd catch each other's eyes every time our leaf-ridden paths crossed. We'd make our two separate piles into one massive leaf cemetery and proceed to jump in them until we were forced to rake up our mess.

I want to write books with you. We'd never publish them but we'd have stacks of them on our bookshelves. 

I want to wake up on a roof-top with you. We'd stay there until the sun told us it was noon, telling each other stories from our childhoods. 

I want to ride trains with you. Commuter rails, inter-city, raised. We'd wave to passengers in the cars adjacent and parallel to us. We'd whisper into each other's ears about the lives we imagined for them.

I want to be trite and make playlists with you. We'd listen to them on repeat as we waited for our tea's water to boil.

I want to visit a zoo with you. We'd make funny faces at all the underwater mammals and name every chick that's born before our eyes.  


I want to be with you.