she wants what she wants.

_{she wants someone to tell her she makes him the happiest man on earth. she wants someone to sugarcoat everything; she won't feel guilty for taking the stars from the sky.}

she wants love letters on loose leaf paper, without the ruffled edges torn off. she doesn't mind a little bit of imperfection in her day. chipped nails don't mean much, after all.

<sub>she wants a sunrise and sunset simultaneously.

she
wants
milky way
vacations

                and chocolate covered
                (hi, there)'s
                                                 

she wants
sprinkles on
her cupcakes      
                               
                         and to float
                         without the help
                             of someone else's arms</sub>



she wants a prom date.
she wants someone to ask her.
she wouldn't show up with a friend if her life depended on it.

                    she knows it'll never, never be you.
               she threw away the jumpsuit with the roses and the bows, it made her feel like a prisoner stuck with you.

she doesn't remember how to turn off the heater,
and she doesn't know how warm seventy degrees is until she's seen the hair on your neck stand up when your eyes are locked on someone else.

she's just a caterpillar.
she's green and yellow and this ugly shade of Ceil,
and she's still somewhere deep down, somewhere you don't want to see or think about because you won't even look at her through the lenses of your glasses.

                                                 ^{she lives in 1947 with coke bottle glasses and suspenders and high-waisted jeans, and shorter hair than most of the boys she's found herself attracted to.}

she wants the best things in life, but she's willing to pay. she's willing to look you in the eye, even from a few feet away. she wants the best things in life.

she's not a unicorn, or an onion. she's not made of layers, and she isn't magical or rainbow-colored or any little girl's dream. some of her shoes don't fit her right and she can't walk without her shoulders bowed in.

-----

he wants a bombshell, and unpredictability.
he wants sundaythroughsaturday football games and cheerleaders at his feet, and other places, but that's not so important, and no one else needs to (know.]
he wants his Letterman ironed in just the right spots. it'll make him look buff.
he wants a sunset so he won't have to look into her eyes, it'll be too dark to see. he doesn't want sensitivity or sugar in his coffee.

he wants to stand in the middle of the rain with his shirt off and halfway down the road, with his arms extended and a grin on his face. he wants to laugh like an escapee, with no intention of escaping anything except his own crucifixion.
                              

he wants blonde hair blue eyes shit for brains.
he wants someone he won't have to talk to for more than five minutes a day because it makes his head hurt and his heart palpitate and he doesn't like the feeling of commitment without incursion.
                                     
                                he'll never look at her.
                                even the rims of his glasses seem to shy away from her, even the rims of his glasses shout at him when he even considers a simple peek.

------------

he was seventeen and not a big fan of the magazine type girls with glossy hair and drugs he'd never even heard of.

she wanted to jump into her television so someone would think about giving her a chance. she was a broken string inside the piano and a harmonica that wasn't so melodic and only squealed out "help me" as someone played.

she wants to read all the books in the library so she'll be well-read and have a reason to use all the words in her teeth. she wants to stop listening to bob dylan at four in the morning until her eardrums start to hum along.

he wants to channel surf until he sees a reflection of something beautiful and children laughing, and flowers blooming, and

some
kind
of
                                 stupendous.

he wants backwards punctuation and sandcastles made of pink sand. he wants a snow-angel sans the footprint and to sweep up someone else's emotional dust. he wants something to think about at four in the morning until his eyes vomit out a plea for rest. he wants to lie, and say he's fine. he wants someone to say he's not, and find out why he's not sleeping at night. he wants to use her concealer to cover the bags under his eyes. he tiptoes through the hallway, and taps her on the shoulder. when she turns around she's not expecting the Letterman and she's not expecting the hair on his neck to rise and she's not expecting

it's.

       not.

                  him.

it's not the crazed sex driven escapee with shadow-chasing tendencies, and he wants rewound VHS tapes and walmart smiley faces and just a small scuff on the soles of his shoes. he wants to lie on the railroad track. he wants the train to lament for the dead and beg to take him under and he wants to run away.

                                        she wants him to tell her she makes him the happiest man in the world, and she wants him to write it on a post-it note so she knows it won't get away.