Wanting.

There is a certain tenderness in asking someone to stay — a certain softness in wanting them to stick around a little longer.

Smile a little longer. Tell a joke a little longer.

There is softness in wanting — the very act of giving someone authority over yourself; the act of admitting that I, too, have the potential to desire something. That I, too, feel the joy that one's companionship could bring — but more importantly, that I would like for it not to leave.

That I could want.

Want.

Want? Me?

How could I do this? How could I want anything, regardless of the fact that I have helplessly tried to run away from it all my life?

And yet, I do.

I want my mother to skip work on a cold day. I want to talk about things that have choked my throat for ages. I want to be heard and be understood. I want to see snow and how beautifully it creates a canopy over everything. I want to laugh so loud that my stomach hurts.

I want to feel joy without being scared it will be taken away.

I want to want something without feeling like a criminal.

And yet again, my scrambled-eggs of a brain takes the cue to remind me of how selfish it is — but more importantly, how incredibly dangerous it is.

How painfully dangerous it is to want something, because it means knowing that there is a chance you wouldn't get it. And if you are someone like me, you will denounce yourself repeatedly — for hoping in the first place, for having the ability to hope.

And so, perhaps this is as close to wanting as I'll get...writing about it.