I envy the cicada
that can shed its skin,
become new and start over.
I want to shed the scars and wounds
of my life.
The make-believe of ruined faiths.
The accumulation of opinion,
dislikes,
salted tastes,
so nothing is new anymore,
or fragrant,
or delicate with new cloth,
words that wrap around the heart.
To pull out the little daggers
that killed romance, love, imagination.
I want idealism back.
I want to see inside the topaz of eyes,
winter gardens,
gifts left unsigned on a table,
the purity of tomorrow,
a bouquet of seaweed
dancing in my hands,
a name that fits me now,
the other,
in a locket tossed in a grave.
I want to walk down an avenue of trees,
keeping company with their arms.
See the faces of beloved strangers
who I have always known,
and say,
I have a new heart,
I believe in infinite tenderness,
the youth of forever.
I am a kid.
What I am and will always be.
Romance my darlings.
Ready for romance.