I want the view. The city lights beneath me, blink­ing in red and white, to remind me that life still goes on even as we’re uncon­scious of it.

I want to be in the café with Darren, talk­ing about that which only we could under­stand about each other.

I want to be look­ing out the open win­dow of my uncle’s apart­ment in Hong Kong, to hear the peo­ple talk­ing, even through the night. I want to smell the age of the wood, the steril­ity of the concrete.

I want the strings to be play­ing just for me. To guide me, through lay­ers of res­o­lu­tion after resolution.

I want to stay on the beach­front. To feel the cool, moist wind blow­ing through open cur­tains and doors, com­pletely trust­ing of the world. To feel the dark­ness and quiet swal­low­ing me whole.

I want to be rolled up in my sheets with her, pressed together on the couch, naked as we came, as the morn­ing light begins to glow through the blinds.

I want to be down­town in the warmth of sum­mer, with the energy of those around me as if the night would never end.

I want the rit­u­als accorded to those who love and are loved in return.

I want to walk out of the the­atre into the deaf­en­ing night air, my mind rac­ing and hum­bled from the performance.

I want to ride with John. To speak with­out think­ing. To feel with­out car­ing. To con­fide with­out worrying.

I want this feel­ing to last forever.