I could be wild outsid of poems. Wild and free in my way of being — a flower-eating wind-borne child rolling down small slopes of soil with green leaves of grass in my chocolate coloured hair.
I want to be woken up at an unlikely hour just before dawn — 4 am — and be walked across an endless fell. I want to drag my feet and complain as I pull my sweatshirt closer to my body. Will my eyes to stay awake. Hate you vehemently until I see an orchard of trees where you teach me how to pick fruit.
I want to walk back to our dishsoapsmell kitchenette and wash the fruits in the steel sink, in the dark, under tap water cold with the morning. I want us to sit silently at the counter — you on one end, I on the other — and eat the fruit — peel, fibre, stalk, everything — leaving drops of juice that will turn sticky on the wooden table.
I want to eat wild, harvested, young fruit for breakfast in the colourless purple of the morning. The small space before the roosters call and the foxes run back into the woods behind the supermarket. Before welling rain falls at last. In the still, invisible hour when everyone’s dreaming.
And then, just before the sun finds us,
we fall asleep on an unmade bed.