Clouds

White, pillowy shapes

Flowing, moving, changing.

I want to be a cloud, I think. I sit on the emerald grass, watching thin cirrus weave imperceptibly through the half-dome of sky and ungainly cumulus parade like Noah's Ark.

 I want to be puffy and pure.

 I want to purple with anger and thunder my emotions on the unsuspecting world beneath me.

I want to build and stretch and dissipate.

I want to travel the world.

I want.

I am full to bursting with it. I want so much I can't open my mouth for fear it will bubble over. I look up and remember third grade art projects, fingers sticky with glue and pulling cotton balls apart to paste on a blue paper background.

I put up my finger to cover the cloud nearest to me, the one that looks like an elephant. I can cover it with my thumb, but I cannot touch.
So close and yet so far away. It's an illusion, but maybe one day I will reach it.

For now though, I am fifteen and wanting.