I want summer by a blue lake and a small, dusty bookstore to work at.
I want an apartment with a corner devoted to all my books, and I want new friends I won’t understand how I lived without.
This stretch of fingers, click of keys, flick of wrist, is my path to that.
Writing a poem is a difficult business. It costs my time and my secret words. More often than not, it requires sheer grim stubbornness.
But sometimes, words spill from my keyboard, and I all I have to do is dream.
I dream of the way I fell in love with a place, the way I want to chase every chance I get to return there. I dream of burning sweet-scented candles and setting fresh-baked bread on the kitchen counter. I dream, and my fingers fly, and all I have to do is think of the right words and maybe, just maybe, my spell will come true.
I will have the life I’m chasing. I will have snowy mountains and old university buildings and loose sheets of paper in my bag, sheets covered in my poems, my spells, to push me even further. My heart will break and I will stitch it back together with the bright things in my mind.
The stretch of fingers, click of keys, flick of wrists. Over and over. That is how I will make my dreams come true.