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Petrichor Daydream
Ideally, I say, our house will be cotton candy pink.
(Hands trail absent through prickling blades of grass, trace
patterns in the dirt.)
And, I add
andandand
there will be a bakery, a bookstore
the smallest places to carve
our short lives into leaking sunshine dripping warmth
from the sky
and it will all smell like petrichor.
(I recall, again, the last time I put my dolls in a box and never took them back out.
We just keep on growing, tilt our necks towards the light
like sunflowers do.
We romanticize the way our petals fall off.)
The word ‘idyllic’, I continue
is too high an expectation
but
there will be boys with pastel hair
linen sheets and open windows
girls who link hands together and smile.
Isn’t that enough?
Is that enough?
(Please, let me be enough.)
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I wrote this poem about building a chosen family with the people you love.