In another life, I would like to think that I was the perfect version of myself.
I would like to think that my hair fell in long tresses like roses on a trellis.
I would also like to think that it smelled like roses on a trellis.
In another life, I would have hoped not of such selfish things as perfection.
In some other dimension, I can see myself sitting on the edge of a freeway overpass.
I count the lights that fly between my feet much like roaring bugs in summer.
I keep a tally of how many remind me of cliche movies.
In some other dimension, on the edge of a freeway overpass, I wouldn't think about falling.
If I wasn't myself, I know I could be everything that I've ever wanted to be.
I'd be a successful writer. I'd know to bake oatmeal cookies from scratch.
I wouldn't waste time worrying over the inevitable and the indescribable.
If I wasn't myself, I know I'd be more of myself than I have ever been in my life.
In another life.