12:54 AM

I love writing like I love a soft blanket wrapped tightly around me. I love writing like the first bite of a warm brownie topped with ice cream. Like sitting outside on a summer night and looking up at lit paper lanterns. Like the tiny clusters of white flowers hanging outside my window. The sweet scent entices me to bend down and smell them almost every time I walk to my front door.

I love writing like I love my new wallet.  Made out of soft leather, it came with a removable strap. It's a peachy shade of burnt orange and I wanted to sleep beside it on the first night.

Like sixty-nine cent, avalanche de sabor ice cream cones from McDonald's. Like the smell of good coffee beans in the morning. Like jazz cafes. Like the feeling after running four miles. Calm. Empty. Sweaty.

I love writing like I love myself. My curly hair. My lips. My toes--they're red. The dark fleck in my right eye. I love it like the comforting notion that no one will ever know me as well as I do.

Like Seattle. Like driving on the freeway at sunset and seeing the mountains all around me. Like rain on hot asphalt.

Like espresso and a piece of chocolate on a sunny patio at noon.

Like the feeling of ocean water drying on my skin: flakes of salty residue on my arm. Like white cotton anything. Like coconut sunscreen. Like summer. Like fall.

I love writing like I love the first poem I ever wrote: "I want, I want, I want / I want something that you want / I want sunshine, I want flowers." I must have been ten, I think.