176 weekends from 30
If I count the way you do—
I’d be 176 weekends from 30,
432 midnights to graduation,
one picture book shy
of a childhood dream.
But what of poetry
and that novel
about forgetting?
Another theorem,
another contraption,
more art on walls—
only, that dream's
gone stale.
Still, I want to make
sculptures of words,
matted with meaning,
unintelligible,
like confessing underwater.
I’ve never snorkeled.
I’d like to.
But before that—
a hot-air balloon ride.
Wait, helicopters.
Actually, skydiving first.
I’ve always craved
that free-fall freedom,
what I imagine
falling in love
would feel like.
I want to try that.
Or make you miss me.
Or get flirt-drunk.
Drape my legs
over my future.
As a kid,
I couldn’t stop
dreaming of flying
and running away.
Now I can run anywhere.
I could go to Europe
more times than necessary.
I’ve never been to Paris.
Italy looks beautiful,
those coves, that turquoise.
I could fly back to Taiwan—
the food, the cheap gyoza.
And this, I guess,
is how you count yourself
into an appetite,
176 weekends from 30.