I want

To come home after my classes, open the mailbox, find an envelope that has traveled through more airports than I waiting for me, take the elevator up to the second floor, unlock the door, go to the kitchen and make a cup of vanilla-flavored filtered coffee - two sugars, one milk - now carry the hot mug with my right hand to my desk, sit down, rip the paper with the paint spatula, read what has been written and smile at all the small things complimenting the letter and take a sip that won't burn the taste buds of my tongue. To take out the colorful sheets of A4 paper, the colorful pens, the colorful tape and stickers, put my thoughts in order, start scribbling on a steady pace, straight lines and coherency, fill my text with dreaming, fill my envelope with evidence of my days.

   To open an online shop, pictures of brightness, bold patterns and shapes, gather unworn clothes and those CDs I found no one here listens to and jewelry I keep hidden and shoes I've grown out of and books I have no space of in need of another home, trinkets, items on hold stored 'till the day of judgement comes, which one will stay or otherwise be thrown away, so instead I get to give it away to other second-hand lovers like me, us who hold dear what's been held and circle the intimacy of it.

   To study my books, unread literature of classic and modern ink, German grammar and syntax, music theory according to A.Schoenberg, watch the number on the down center of the pages increase rapidly, smirk and let a laugh out the size of a cherry, natural light from the balcony window beaming through, re-read the same sentence over and over and over and I still can't focus cause my mind drifts, far away to the thought of how I could be a songwriter, a restaurant chef, a dog walker, then I return to the very real paper in front of me, printed on the hearts of trees, and that's the only thing I can hate about my love for books.

   To go out with you, whoever you are, you could be me, and me should be out there, taking pictures of space occupied, details arising within sight, blue as the sky and the seaside, red as the traffic lights and blood on my nails, I see no dark, I witness only that little square in my lenses, I focus on what stands out but doesn't get noticed, I search for a way to capture moving pictures, make films, shape visions to be visible, still my camera and my eyes disagree with each other and I gotta make amends.

   To go back to bed, a reasonable hour as the clock suggests, it's warm enough to leave my legs naked, a bra-less tee and a pair of soft pink underwear with lace, buried in our companionship, I'll fight you, melt your heart, demand all sorts of things, bring me water I'm thirsty, you always go and bring me water when I'm thirsty, the computer is on, we binge-watch a dozen different unfinished shows we hardly even remember the plots of, you love me and I fall asleep and spasm and the next morning you make me coffee;

two sugars, one milk.