Homemade.

Cedar. The crackle of alpine air
seeping into my lungs. The shift of snow,
squeaking against my shoes.
Animal tracks across the path.
A sky so deep I could look forever.

Pollen. Frogs buzzing at the edges
of backyards. Fruit crowding the branches
until they have no choice but to fall.
The trailing glow of fireflies against my palm.

Salt. The crunch of water grinding into the shore.
The shrillness of sea birds, past the waterline.
Billowy white clouds, pulling the sky into fragments.
The sun, when it hits, is blinding in its brilliance.

My skin is burning. My eyes flutter shut -

Despite my best efforts, quarantined inside my mind
in those sacred hours before dawn, I still find myself
dreaming. Though the faces change, my desires remain.

Here: have a house. It's got a lot of nooks and
crannies for an open floor plan. Rugs abound.
Sheer white curtains to let in the breeze
when the air conditioning isn't on. A wide porch,
rocking chairs, a tree with a tire swing.
A kitchen big enough to dance in. A king-sized bed
pushed against the wall.

A wor  red couch, because no matter
how hard I try, I can't rid myself of it.

A white picket fence. Dogs. The tang of happiness.

A little place nestled in a pocket of land, near
the mountains, or wide open fields, or the sea.
Someday, I'm gonna wake up, and that will be my life.