I Want Everything
Everything
“What do you mean? What do you want?”
“Everything.”
“Give me an example.”
“Everything — everything there is, everything there was, everything that will be.”
I want to arm-wrestle Dracula and actually win.
I want clouds soft enough to dim the sun, so the weight of my shadow grows gentle; as it grows, it no longer burdens the ground, and I am freed from the noise of its cast. My overwhelming weight will not matter as I gaze into her eyes.
I want flowers to bloom at my command. I will repeat each blossom over and over, to see what I missed, to retell it in words and touch, to declare it lovely — in hope that I too can flower from within.
I want the moon as my lover — entirely mine. I held it once when I was five; it slipped away from my hand as I forgot. A few other things I will forget: how to fly, or the fact that I once took the moon as a lover. Poetry is not in my betrayal but in my forgetfulness. The nature of dreams is forgetfulness, so I repeat mine.
The moon will cast a softer shadow than any bright dying star as I gaze into her eyes. Its voice will remind me: don’t forget, this time you promised to give in. Give in.
I want to quiet the hollow hunger inside — the one demanding everything — but only after I have it all, only after I can call it mine.
I want a castle suspended in the sky, carved from blue-toned limestone — soft to my eyes, warm to my hands, scented with basil and thyme. my favorite smell. and her favorite color .
I want a white butler named Jeff, paid from an endless pot of gold kept beside the rainbow, near the dawn — both of which I also want for myself. Jeff must be white.
Next to them, the dew at dawn will rest on flowers that bloom at my command. I will hold the dawn still for as long as I wish — to shrink, stretch, scratch, and stuff it into a teapot, like a child whose toy is time, as he stares at the moon telling him stories of his day. All is fictional — all but the fact that he touched Dracula’s hand, and Dracula was on occasion very kind. All of this I will keep in the corner of a room in my castle, with its lavish blue stone.
I want everything.
To seduce her with a smile, to hold her in my arms, to leave nothing untouched; to taste her heaven and her lips.
For me to be kind, for her to be kind.
For it all to be sweet, and for her to want me to gaze as long as I please — eyes wide like a valley; I sink in.
I want eight pairs of angels’ wings; I’ll give her one so she, too, can fly.
I want fear itself to fear me — to stagger, retreat in confusion, to feel the pain it caused, to suffer for it, then vanish into a tiny cell: one and a half meters wide, half a meter long, half a meter high — perfectly horrid. Jailed in the backyard of my castle, scented with basil and thyme — a scent it will never smell.
I want to consume without limit; to remember on command and forget at will; for words to stop fading before my eyes, and to know everything — even that which I cannot yet grasp.
I want every piece of Bernini’s work for myself, to keep by my bed, to touch and hold as long as I wish — then use as a rack for my shirts, the ones Jeff will wash, press, and scent with care, since he must. And Jeff must be so bale so white. Solitude, balance, or rather revenge — reasons why Jeff must be so pale, so white.
i want everything the dawn, the rainbow, and the dew on the leaves of my flowers that bloom at my command. And as it blooms, I retell it in words and touch: you are so lovely.
Beyond that, a glimpse from a window — far in the distance, hints of beasts roaming free. Sometimes they appear to entertain, sometimes to aid in fear’s slow death, But Jeff can feed them all. since I won’t have the time. Their bellies swell on fear’s slow steady decline, and as they feed, I will not be present. I will be in her arms, eyes wide as a valley as I sink in — soft as silk around my neck, salvation in giving in My hand rests over my heart, my body shifts in balance, my lips meet hers, finally knowing all that is sweet. And if she asks, I will give it all — or rather, she could have it all: all there is, all there was, all there will ever be — the castle and its blue stone, the rainbow, the dawn. Discard it if you wish, or stuff it in a teapot — but not my pot of gold. It guards against the lizard’s bite. And never the moon. Never the moon. The moon cannot be discarded, not like the pot of gold. It is forever mine , mine alone — the first kind lover, impossible to give away, unthinkable to betray twice. I promised to give in.
Maybe then, the hollow space will be filled.
I want everything.
For them both never to have been hurt — least of all by those who claimed to love them the most.
For her never to have fallen ill.
For me never to have seen her in that hospital bed, or that other hospital bed.
For the four of us never to have shattered, never to be shattered.
For her and for him to grow, fully loved, fully cared for, so they too can flower from within.
I will let the pain pass silently to anyone else — just not to those eight.
I want everything.
I want everything.
But I have nothing.
Nothing at all.