waiting for flowers

it's all i can think about
like taking my breath away, clenching my diaphragm, digging my nails into my palms
thinking about it
each scenario flows into the next
reality and fantasy swarm like a funneling dust devil that drives you from 2nd base.
i want what i can't have
and in my stronger moments assume that trivializing it as such easily names this feeling
comfort in cliche
but then complexity pushes my platitudes aside
what if
why not
why now
how much of this can i manage
how close to the edge do i dare
what choice do i have
the thought of it pursues me
what is it really
it is novel
like i've never fucking been here before
i risk everything to turn it aside
i risk everything to turn everything else aside and fall into it
it feels cowardly not to grab at what my heart wants
it feels cowardly to indulge in a potentially fleeting appetite
it's pumpkin time
my life is
my choices make me what
the choices are not as pressing as the way we live with them
does that hold
am i moralizing
perhaps it is a question of restructuring my life with intention
if my life keeps leaning toward this kind of longing
then it becomes of question of preserving the things i love
by introducing new boundaries that permit the things i desire
lest resentment take root, nay root deeper
i have already compromised
in the repressive reflex shame instills
right now, however
it's all i want
i waist an afternoon waiting for flowers
i hope, for my sake, they never come