i just want to be in a place where they are speaking french.

a man, speaking french, with a navy blue suit on and blue eyes
and he is my husband, at my first book signing and we are going
to have incredible sex outdoors that night, or watch our children
in a play about saving the sun from the galaxy hunters of a distant
land.

i want to be a mother, holding the hands of little creatures
with bright purple band-aids on their playground battle wounds;
i want to teach them to revolt against the 9 to 5 and run with me
and their father and our community of almost nudists to europe,
south america, and other romantic locations.

i see myself watching the theatrical pieces and paintings of my
artistic students, who are finding their way, with my help, my
tired hands grasping a hand made mug filled with green tea
in the rehearsal room on a cold friday in late March.


i hear foreign voices and it makes me want to run back
to Valencia and chase the boy who stole my chocolate.

i want you to know, that no matter how far we get, i love
you. i love you.

i love you.