It’s not that I can’t decide
who you are,
though I can’t.
It’s that I can’t decide
what I want you to be.

Maybe a diamond,
or a seashell,
or a plain old rock
to skip across the lake.

Maybe a square
that I can count on
to be constant,
or a shapeshifter.

Maybe a breath,
or a blink,
or an open road.

Maybe pure color,
or black and white,
or somewhere in between.

Maybe summer,
or spring,
or snowball fights.

Maybe a heist,
maybe a dream.
Maybe insanity.

Maybe a twilight
with a bonfire,
or a view,
maybe just a moment.

Maybe a lighthouse,
or a rescue ship,
or a canopy
just to keep out the rain.

Maybe a hero,
or a white knight,
or a human.

He whispers,
Make a wish,
and I would
if I knew what to wish for.