I want.
I want, I want, I want.
I want to stand there at three in the morning
in front of windows wider than my arms outstretched;
To see my reflection in the crystal clean panes
with my face blurred by the red and yellow and white streetlights and house lights and car lights
flickering seventy-three stories below me;
To hear the caffeinated associates outside my office
Hysterically whispering, frantically typing, madly rustling the papers for tomorrow’s trial;
To smell the pungent paint, the musky mahogany, the crisp cases of law books;
To taste the metallic sting of anticipation on my tongue and in my throat;
To touch my well-pressed suit and my embossed leather chair, knowing
for now, for tonight, the world belongs to me.
I sit here, in my parents’ suburban house on my bed at three in the afternoon with a Freezie,
and I want.