Fulcrum

I want a futon. One with a thick crimson-colored bedspread where I could make love endless nights through sleepy mornings, with a man who plays hackysack and the guitar and me. A perfect stranger who reads Wilde and Faulkner in my living room filled with crisp daffodils spread across hardwood floors, as he touches my splintered heart and traces my soft skin. I want to feel the sensation as he cracks my head open and gently scratches my cortex and the warmth when he realizes what he's really looking for is the best goddamn green he's ever seen. My iris.

I want to be Ali McGraw in Love Story and Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and anybody else in anything else really, dancing in ominous rain and plie-ing over puddles of mud and rolling herself into deep earth. I want to never be afraid and to stop running every time I unfurl myself from fetal position right before I stick my feet in wet sand of the undertow. I want to drown in the harmonious sound of young folks building sand castles and collecting seashells, of infuriated gentlemen unable to reboot my sanity and delete me from their history. (I want to browse her too.)

And I want the black wave of mind games to evaporate and to fold over right in front of the dimensional sand, with just enough water to keep it thirsty. And I want whomever is inside to let me in, to let me sit on their world as I watch them build a playground for my neuroses, with enough diligence and grace to slide the wind against my face. And I want to feel. I want to feel the senselessness and the dance of the salsa in Barcelona and the guitar strings wrapped around my tongue and the taste of Ankur pressed against my liver and the outline of  lips against mine and the darkness of light right before I fade into distraction.

I want to be lost in vertigo and in penny loafers m o v i n g a c r o s s the rubbish and the fogworld and through revolving doors. I want to be in love and incoherent and I want to know it, to feel it, to never let it subside even for a minute or two. I want a perfect weirdo and I want to be wrapped in each other the way dried, harried flowers stick together after a week in a vase. And I want him on a styrofoam plate and in a cliff note on top of my dresser and in my mind because a mind in love is such a terrible thing to waste.

I want to be wasted all the time.