I hate that you make me crave a tenderness
that I cannot provide to anyone
and you cannot provide to me.
sometimes, when I forget who I am,
I imagine coming home to a Chicago apartment
that smells like your grandfather’s recipes.
I imagine late-night conversations about Russian art and immigration law,
then kicking off sweaty black sneakers beside your scuffed Docs
before falling asleep to the sound of your breathing.
I hate that I can imagine this life but can never live it.
I’m the woman you call when you need to burn down a palace,
not when you need to build a home.
To be bound to you would burn me, like a fairy chained in iron,
and sometimes, I contemplate the shackles of your earthly embrace
and dream of trading my wings to let you trap me.
But each day I wake alone, enveloped in my own violet gossamer
and will myself to rise,
for the only world wide enough for this strange winged creature
is the lonely blue sky.
