I wish our love were made of summer grass,
And for the sky no longer be foreboding.
I wish for spiderwebs to be our fleeting breaths,
And clouds and thunderstorms to be our mortal bodies.
I wish for sunrise to be our repast,
And sunsets be our beds, majestic.
We then would be eternal, young, and fast,
But sometimes we would also be domestic.
I wish for busses for our great escapes,
And lanterns for our festivals of flesh.
I wish for every memory to be stale,
And wish for every moment to be fresh.
Alas, for lack of space, I must confess,
What I do truly wish I'll let you guess.