one day, I will have a closet full of long dresses: peach, embroidered, lace, scalloped, satin, starched, flowing, sleeves of every shape. I will do everything slowly, as there will be no rush: turning pages, boiling water, buying apples and flowers, forming words, pulling weeds, folding clothes, chopping garlic, painting lakes and silver trees. I will wipe dirt across my forehead and not notice until hours later. I will sit in reverie, with a warm cat on my lap, eyes fixed on the fractured waltz of raindrops down the glass. I will have friends over until midnight on a weeknight, all of us glowing by candle light, passing bottles and bottles of red wine, dishes of cheese, fruits, breads, Ella on the record player, sage and roses in my hair, a soft breeze coming off the balcony. I will have heavy cashmere blankets for my body to disappear into every night, a small wood stove for when it's cold. Brisk morning air over the ocean at 6am when I am rising (slowly) to salt and waves; boo
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