I wish “conversation” was a living thing.
A man, rather.
My man, more so.
I wish I could hold his hand and talk to him to my heart’s content.
I wish I could take him along on my weird trips, to fantasy-land.
I wish I knew the exact mix, of satire, of wit, of mystery and glitz.
But, no. He is not easily snared.
I wish I knew what I could give, and give and give.
To have him heal me, to hold me, to breathe into me, life.
I wish for him to be personified, just once, maybe for a night.
I wish to see how the world survives, in quietness, in despair, in solitary plight.
Because if I had him, and the words he weaves, there is no way I would let the sun rise.