I Don’t Want Much, Really

Here’s the thing. I just want to walk barefoot in the mud and let my hair stay messy and tangled and feel the sun kiss my skin.

I just want to dance when the beat’s right and the mood hits. I just want to write shitty poetry or love stories or dark shit that doesn’t really make sense.

I want to kiss that donkey on the nose because it’s cute and lay in the damp grass because it feels right and walk on the gravel because it hurts.

I just want to sing my favorite Christmas song even though it’s summer and dig my hands deep in the wormy compost soil and talk my plants from one pot to another.

I just want to stay up way too late recording my thoughts and sending you stupid texts about nothing really and watch the sun cross the sky to drop behind the mountains with a sigh.

I just want to coax the wild rabbits into my hands and the vole to go back out of the house on its own and the mama moose that I won’t harm her little babies. I just want to grow my own veggies and brew my own root beer and smoke my own fish.

I just want to sit in awe beneath the dancing auroras and make impromptu snow angels and go for walks in the fresh snow.

But most of all, I think I just want you.

I just want to lay next to you under the stars, holding hands. I just want to keep each other company when you’re stranded unexpectedly and lose some sleep just in case we get to talk.

I just want to write mediocre poetry all about you and have you tell me it’s crap but to keep writing anyway. I just want your lips on my skin when I least expect it and also when I’ve been waiting all day.

I just want you in my life every single day for the rest of my nights.

And absolutely most of all, I just want to know that I am yours and you are mine and to hear you say you love me.

tara caribou | ©️2019

42 Comments on “I Don’t Want Much, Really

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Robert Charboneau.

Writer and Artist

living document

a collection of short poetry from an autistic mind

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