Fantasies
I fantasize for a cottage on the side of a warm, sunlit path with rocky cobble and gravel lining the way. A windowsill covered in sparkling rocks and gently swaying flowers. A lilypad-filled pond for ducks with velvet feathers. I fantasize for buttered bread that melts in your mouth but doesn't crumble in your hands; I fantasize for cotton gowns that have lace down at my knees. The way the wind blows through the long grass I used to be scared of, like my father warned me to be. My hands soft and cold from the dip and ripple they make in simple creeks with silver fish small enough to slip through my fingers; the taste of sweet lemons sprinkled with borrowed sugar. I fantasize for long hair that curls daintily at the tips, tied back with a gold clip or bow. I fantasize for homemade cookies and scones, white leather heels I won't wobble in, glass chess sets that reflect colors around my cluttered kitchen. But I fantasize truly for the way she looks at me with her curved lips and twinkling, bronze eyes. The freckles from lazy days in the sun trace constellations on her cheeks, her brow, her lips: she's my Cassiopeia, my little dipper. I fantasize for her love, her comfort, our home. I fantasize for her. For us.