What I Want

I am returning to Spain within the week, only for a visit. I lived there for a year many years ago. There are many sights I am longing to see: The fountains . The cobblestone streets. The house in my neighborhood that is older than America. The guitar shop where I bought my handmade flamenco guitar. The Alhambra. Granada is a second hometown to me. It always will be. But there is one sight I long to see and hope very much that I don't. Her name is Ana.

I know "love at first sight" exists, because Ana exists. I know time can be frozen, because it was. And I was there. I didn't understand the first words she said because she had the most unusual and amazing eyes, brown and green like marbles, and I was lost in them. But her words were sadly prophetic, "Es una lástima yo no hablo inglés." And it's a shame I don't speak Spanish. To adore someone and never be able to say it is awful. To never be able to say it because of language is worse.

Tossing and turning out of that frustration one night, I awoke and demanded one question of myself, "What do you want?!" My answer took less than 20 mins to write. And it has proven to be a time capsule that brings be back every time to the scenes and my emotions in them. But that's also where they should stay. I adore her then. I don't know her now.

I wanted to review this memory before all the others come flooding back. Ana never got to see this. Never got to hear it. Never got to read it. Never got to know it. Like you do.

I'm writing this, selfishly, for me. But I also hope it serves notice that you never, ever, know when you may have inspired good things in someone's heart. You may have done it today.

"What I Want"
What I want is to see you again
with the words and their meaning in place.
The shine of your hair, the light in your eyes
and a smile on your beautiful face.

To see you move and talk with friends
some you have barely just met.
To watch your hands, your mouth, your lips
as you light your last cigarette.

To have you look at me through a dim-lit room
from across a smoke-filled bar.
To say with that look, not with my words,
how strong and sensual you are.

To smell your perfume. To touch your hand.
The skin, I imagine, is soft.
To hear your heart. To feel your breath.
These are the thoughts in which I get lost.