Ideally, I say, our house will be cotton candy pink.

(Hands trail absent through prickling blades of grass, trace

patterns in the dirt.)

And, I add

andandand 

there will be a bakery, a bookstore

the smallest places to carve

our short lives into leaking sunshine dripping warmth 

from the sky

and it will all smell like petrichor.

(I recall, again, the last time I put my dolls in a box and never took them back out. 

We just keep on growing, tilt our necks towards the light

like sunflowers do.

We romanticize the way our petals fall off.)

The word ‘idyllic’, I continue

is too high an expectation

but 

there will be boys with pastel hair

linen sheets and open windows 

girls who link hands together and smile.

Isn’t that enough?

Is that enough?

(Please, let me be enough.)