I wish I could draw.

I wish I could paint the sunsets I see everyday as I peer out of my window, hovering 26 stories above this great and complicated city.
I wish I could trace the lines of those flower petals perfectly, each imperfect crinkle and cut, each graceful curve as they bend against each other like parabolas.
I wish I could capture the shadows that graze my the skin of my hips, that turn out rather than in, 

I wish I could breathe easier, I wish I could tell someone I was struggling.
(And I can, but I don't want to. Not now, not yet, not ever.)

I wish there was a place I could go to be alone, to relax and breathe with a cup of something steaming, and paper at my fingertips.

I wish there was a mind that thought of me, a hand that wanted to give me flowers, too.

I wish there was someone who could grasp my shoulders, fingers that would trace my collarbones and my spine. 
I wish I could care less for that mindset. I wish I was less bothered so that I would not be worrying about these feelings, about wanting them, about why I cannot have them just yet.

I wish everything would just go away, sometimes.

I just want to be me again.