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Every December, my family and I would unpack our mini ceramic town

and lay its pieces out on the chest and switch on all the moving parts and lights

and it would be Christmastime.

Where did the townspeople go off to sleep—didn’t they get tired?

Where did they go when we packed their town away?

Who got custody of them after we all left?

I am angry. I am so angry still.

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How do you expect me to explain what I want?

I thought I knew. I really did.

I was trained in wanting,

I descended from yearning,

I was carved out of desires.

But when I first uncoil in the mornings to find

my cat crying to be let out of my room,

or the garbage truck stopping by,

or the phone ringing,

or a fire alarm going off,

or a storm sounding,

or you, draped over me and drooling on the pillow,

I don’t want something noble or romantic or unique—

I just want more sleep.

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I asked you once if you believe you’re a good person.

You paused then said, “I think I’m better than I am worse.”

As for me, I think I’m more likely equal parts.

I’m not a saint.

I’m just a person who used to be a kid that was expected to be an angel,

just a kid who wanted to be a bird instead,

just a person who ended up nothing more than a down feather anyway.

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They say the world could end in my lifetime,

but I want to grow old so badly.

I want more time with my clay,

but I’m afraid I’ll never be able to build the things I want to.

I want more time with you and the bands of quartz that line the earth of your chest.

I want to know if the snow will ever land,

if the roads will ever stop screaming,

if the birds will ever escape industrialization,

if the earth will ever be more alive than dead,

if this world will ever make sense.

I want to wake up and want more than just sleep.