gold and pearls
and precious stones
on an empty, worthless throne
do not compete,
do not rival
the kind of love
lonely kings
burn empires for
11 October 2011
03 October 2011
Wishing Purse
click. close. i wish, i wish, i wish.
be happy. get married. live together in the smallest, cheapest place you can find. fill it up with pictures upon pictures and candles upon candles because who needs furniture? work, work, work until either one of you get a raise— and then you move to a slightly bigger place. and yes you will take the pictures and hang them on your new walls. talk about having kids. and decide to adopt a cat first. fight about who spoils the cat the most. of course, you'll always win the fight— even though you both know you spoil it the most. fake fight about everything else. then kiss and make up. make each other's dinners. or have a date every saturday night. or friday. or stay at home and fake fight over the remote— you'll always let him win this one. talk about having kids. and maybe decide to have them for real this time. try every single rocking chair in the store and decide that you want your grandmother's old one. paint the nursery yellow because you don't like pink and he doesn't like baby blue. and when that baby comes out, or arrive at the front door— whichever you decide— have tons of fake fights about who loves him the most as he grows up. cheer for the baby's first step. then maybe the baby will fall and hurt their head, and oh dear god he's bleeding. so you frantically drive to the hospital and start cursing at every single living thing who's wearing a uniform but not helping the baby. and then maybe you'll scowl because of course he's going to laugh at you. but he tells you to not worry, and you stop worrying. well maybe just a little bit because—hello— your baby's in there with a suspiciously young nurse, who, by the way, has probably never handled a child before. so you pace the waiting room until they call you in to bring the baby home. go home. sit on the rocking chair. you'll never let the baby out of your sight again, you say, and he'll not like it. but he comes back with a hot cocoa and pillows, and an air mattress that he just pumped. you laugh when you hear him say maybe you should've settled with another cat. cry on the baby's first birthday. cry on the baby's first day of preschool. spend every morning curled up in each other's arms before your son barge into the room and bounce bounce bounce on the bed. then cry on the first day of elementary school. high school. and when your once little baby's finally off to college. he'll laugh at you, but later that night he'll tell you that he misses him too. on your fiftieth anniversary you'll have nothing else to say to each other, yet so much to tell. so you make him his favorite dinner and he helps you do the dishes. happy anniversary, he says, and yes it is a happy anniversary. and you tell him he makes you happy. he boops your nose and tells you ditto.
click. open. i wish, i wish, i wish.
be happy. get married. live together in the smallest, cheapest place you can find. fill it up with pictures upon pictures and candles upon candles because who needs furniture? work, work, work until either one of you get a raise— and then you move to a slightly bigger place. and yes you will take the pictures and hang them on your new walls. talk about having kids. and decide to adopt a cat first. fight about who spoils the cat the most. of course, you'll always win the fight— even though you both know you spoil it the most. fake fight about everything else. then kiss and make up. make each other's dinners. or have a date every saturday night. or friday. or stay at home and fake fight over the remote— you'll always let him win this one. talk about having kids. and maybe decide to have them for real this time. try every single rocking chair in the store and decide that you want your grandmother's old one. paint the nursery yellow because you don't like pink and he doesn't like baby blue. and when that baby comes out, or arrive at the front door— whichever you decide— have tons of fake fights about who loves him the most as he grows up. cheer for the baby's first step. then maybe the baby will fall and hurt their head, and oh dear god he's bleeding. so you frantically drive to the hospital and start cursing at every single living thing who's wearing a uniform but not helping the baby. and then maybe you'll scowl because of course he's going to laugh at you. but he tells you to not worry, and you stop worrying. well maybe just a little bit because—hello— your baby's in there with a suspiciously young nurse, who, by the way, has probably never handled a child before. so you pace the waiting room until they call you in to bring the baby home. go home. sit on the rocking chair. you'll never let the baby out of your sight again, you say, and he'll not like it. but he comes back with a hot cocoa and pillows, and an air mattress that he just pumped. you laugh when you hear him say maybe you should've settled with another cat. cry on the baby's first birthday. cry on the baby's first day of preschool. spend every morning curled up in each other's arms before your son barge into the room and bounce bounce bounce on the bed. then cry on the first day of elementary school. high school. and when your once little baby's finally off to college. he'll laugh at you, but later that night he'll tell you that he misses him too. on your fiftieth anniversary you'll have nothing else to say to each other, yet so much to tell. so you make him his favorite dinner and he helps you do the dishes. happy anniversary, he says, and yes it is a happy anniversary. and you tell him he makes you happy. he boops your nose and tells you ditto.
click. open. i wish, i wish, i wish.
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