tales for dreamers: a birthday wish

I want to be

the crest of the wave that crashes on the shore and sweeps away all the seashells on its way out,

the poetry that rides on the flutter of the breeze until the muse traps it on paper,

the music that emanates from a hollow, broken piece of wood held together by strings,

the melody that yields a new hidden note each time you replay it on the tape,

the quiver in the singer's voice as she lets a note linger a tad longer than you can hold your breath,

the story you want to read over and over again until you have committed each exquisite word, each beautiful turn of phrase to memory,

the colours that bleed from the artist's brush on to the canvas, rich and resplendent at first, but fading away with the passage of time,

the drop of water that glides down a wet lock of hair and hangs like a teardrop at the end,

the memory that has lodged itself so deep into the recesses of your mind you know it exists but the more you try to retrieve it, the farther out of reach it slips,

the heartbreak that sits at the base of your throat like a lump that won't go away, no matter how many tears you shed,

the hollow in your gut that your sorrow carves out, inch by hurting inch, as you realise your loss is irreconcilable,

the slow, steady movement of the second hand that stretches your wait to eternity,

the faint flicker of hope that tries to warm your lonely heart on a cold winter's day,

your thoughts, your memories, your hopes, your fears, your desires, your dreams,

everything that makes your heart beat, that makes the blood course through your veins faster and furiouser.

I want to be everything that makes you come alive.