I Want to Be Like Water
I want to slip through your fingers but hold up a ship.
I want to be needed, to be depended upon for survival.
I want to be feared and sporadic. I could wipe out a town overnight and I have.
I want to be purified. I want to help you come clean.
I want to be mistaken for vodka.
I want to tap on your window and keep you up at night.
I want you to wake up thirsty for me.
I want the naïve to think there’s plenty of me to go around, but the smart ones know you shouldn’t take me for granted.
I want to rain on parades. I want to loom over an important day and make you hope I don’t ruin everything.
I want to fill all the cracks and freeze and expand to open everything up just a little more.
I want to crystalize on your windows in the winter mornings so you wake up to something beautiful.
I want to be the evidence that you breathe.
I want to well up in your eyes and slide down your cheeks.
I want to put out all the fires.
I want to be the ice in your tea; I need you to cool down.
I want to sooth you where you hurt and help you heal.
I want to skip rocks together and be there when you watch the sun go down.