Pretty Things

If I could,

I'd capture the color blue inside a jar

and it would expand into gas,

shattering a million times to conjure up dreamlight

and I would call it mine.

If I could,

I'd crystallize the taste of chocolate

and it would sit on my tongue,

moaning of creamy colors and breathless constellations

and I would call it mine.

If I could, 

I'd recall the smell of wax melting,

the touch of sunlight, the growling of a dishwasher, erupting.

I'd grab at those pleasures

and hang them like bells

so that every day, I'd wake to the sound of murmuring delight,

chinking at my shirt and shifting into harmonies,

the forever sound of whistling amber.

If I could, 

I'd bring with me a chest,

which would be damp with sweet acid, tinted like church glass neglected,

filled with the size of a strawberry or the apology of a breeze.

The ripping of tape, the hum of delicate engines

the silence before laughter, which only expands and expands

or grass that bristles like the edges of stars, like dreaming divine.

I'd bring something pretty

and I would call it mine.