They just want to be alone. They want a queen size bed, to turn over and find Comfort in the empty space and welcome her. She’s warmer than hands under thighs, warmer than Tampa, and palm trees; more forgiving than love. It’s one thing to love, to want someone who’ll call you on their lunch break just to say hi and be okay with the phone calls that boil too many stove tops of anger in you. It’s another to love the idea of it. They love imagining a home in each calm rugged face they see; but hate the feeling of disappointment, being let down by their own daydream. As if love in a bright red face and brown curly hair is enough. Enough doesn’t always share their last glass of juice with you, because you could get your own. Enough uses the last bath’s hot water. Enough isn’t real. They want something real – an imaginable life.

They just want to be happy. Sadness has his place in coffee shops on first dates, pretending to be deeper than the real. He’s in poetry, on daytime television, in the empty pocket of your old leather jacket. But they don’t want Sadness in their home. Feel free to come in; but take Sadness off with your shoes, don’t track him in. They’re done waiting for Happy at the dinner table, call Happy up and tell ‘em she better be here this time.

They just want a family. No Brady Bunch bullshit, the type of family you won’t find on tv. They want their best friends, their best friend’s boyfriend, their best friend’s boyfriend’s kids, their best friend’s boyfriend’s kid’s cat Lionel who smells kinda funny and pees on the carpet. A family of strangers and a home to fit them all. They want responsibility. Responsibility cleans the kitchen after a day of meals together, hugs Daniel after he gets home from school because the bullies were restless that week, she finds Happy in the pantry right in front of the peanut butter.

They know they’ll find a job, good or bad. That doesn’t matter, what they want is more time to write, are sick of wanting more time. Time’s a teenage boy, small for his age. Time doesn’t get the way the world works yet. It’s so hard to be angry when there’s not enough of him to be angry with. Something so small takes up so much – they just want more of him. More tabletops to imprint into their forearms from hours of writing, more views out of open windows captured in notebooks, more notebooks filled, more things to fill notebooks with. More.

And they want a sleepover with Comfort and Happy, show Comfort that Happy’s not going to hurt her anymore, make room for her in the bed because she’s here to stay this time. And when we’re okay with being around him, we’ll invite Time, maybe there’ll be more of him.