I like...

Coloring books and Luciano Pavarotti and playing horn and pineapple and sappy songs and watching ants in a line and ladybugs and dark skin and ankle bracelets and ‘that’s what she said’ jokes and standup comedy and tattoos and bats and candles and the color purple and frogs and the smell of sweaty horses and the plant my mom put on the back porch that curls up if you touch it and azaleas and blondes and playing footsies and starfish and peppermint and cuddling with my dad and pretty girls and the smell and feel of old leather and rough dog tongues and the way Tylar smells and the moon and weeping willows and my dad’s voice and music boxes and Greek mythology and puns and swimming naked and old cartoons and YTITTY and jelly beans and drag queens and Shistle’s hands and the look on my dad’s face when he’s holding a baby and 90s grunge and when people rub my back and the way LaToya speaks German and Powell’s voice and the history of words and bassoons and falling asleep to music and Richard Strauss and the name Natasha and being so happy I cry and simplicity and being alone and the beach at night and being bilingual and pretending and green beans and not being able to get someone off my mind and sprinklers and the feeling that someone is proud of me and walking basslines and Freddie Mercury and guys with muscular backs that wear tight shirts and standing in the middle of tall gnarly old trees and elephants and owls and perfect 5ths and curly hair and Eskimo kisses and being efficient and optical illusions and Jeremy’s smile and fog and being a lil sleepy and snakes and lullabies and seashells and being quiet and pleasantly surprising someone and the smell of cigarette smoke and typing with my tongue and breezes and muscular legs and the smell of laundry detergent and appaloosas and androgyny and ferns and blue eyes and listening and kimonos and licking my horse when he’s sweaty and marbles and old yellowing paper and spinning around in flowy dresses and Minnie Mouse and old quilts and having conversations with people I’ve never met before and popsicles and the Tango and wishes and kisses and watching people sleep and umbrellas and freshly sharpened pencils and big lips and fixing up my horn and the smell of concrete after it rains and beat boxing and paper cranes and canvas and fantasy novels and pretending to be someone else for a day and quarters and curvy girls and wearing boys underwear and climbing trees and scary-looking dads and the day of panic before an audition and fountains and evergreen trees and horse noses and feeling strong and when Juan is honest and nice at the same time and apple juice and tea and laying on cold tile and inhaling helium and how Nicole makes my car smell good in the morning and when Bonzai brushes her whiskers against my legs and singing in the shower at the top of my lungs and the way my dad puts his hat over his face when he takes a nap and smiling at pretty girls in the hallway and when they smile back and wearing silly things and looking at other people’s baby pictures and when my dad grabs me and jumps into the pool and falling asleep on people and sharing clothes with friends and getting butterflies in my stomach and making funny faces in the mirror and getting boys to carry me places and when people mess with my hair and how close the horn section is and how the moon makes me cry sometimes because it’s so beautiful and crossing my eyes at people when they aren’t looking and Brooklyn accents and plastic army men and dogs and spiders and my dad’s hands around my waist and being kissed on the forehead and sea foam and cargo pants and basses and black-eyed susans and hammocks and black nailpolish and making faces at Katherine and vanilla and the taste of tears and ditch flowers in other states and toddlers and fingerprints and zebras and wooden beads and mismatched earrings and spiral staircases and pirate stories and spoons and The Stranger and body heat and stomachs and cobalt and how Toya completely envelops me when she hugs me and trying to play piano with my toes and dragons and playing in bass clef and thunder and reading until I fall asleep and sandalwood and songs that make me cry and flannel and bamboo and incense and learning new languages and how the straw mats on my back porch feel under my feet and watching my dog roll around in the grass to scratch her back and how my dad smells after standing by the fire and Rufus Wainwright and secrets and Navajo blankets and rain and Earl Grey and mountains and fleece and how the smell of wood smoke clings to your clothes and playing soccer and otters and white rice and messy hair and the smell of old books and decks of playing cars and old sneakers and the verb "aufheben" and warm clothes fresh out of the dryer and that the dot on an i is called a tittle and warm, wiggly, happy puppies and coconut and leather flip flops and thunderstorms and going to bed early and hummingbirds and going barefoot and hibiscus and beds and neat handwriting and history and Elvis and peaches and pajama pants and sunflowers and lollipops and little kid stories and toast.

Winter

      I keep thinking about last winter, and missing those elements. Watching Rocky Horror and Pulp Fiction in Jenni’s room with too many people piled onto one tiny couch. Smoking a cigarette with Derek, even though I didn’t really mean to. Actually using my own two feet to get somewhere, even if it was only to a drugstore to buy more candy than we should have. Driving on roads at night with no one else around, music off, chilly because Derek rolled a window down to smoke. The smell of cigarette smoke that can only ever hope to remind me of good things, no matter how awful it may be, because of all of the wonderful memories and associations tinged with the smell. Envy on the Coast, which is so full of associations to wintertime that I can’t possibly listen to it during the summer. The Used, which I can’t listen to in anything but a gold Honda Accord that smells like vanilla. Derek’s hand always in mine, and the hilarity of two skinny people with no real body heat trying to warm each other up. Being told by a complete stranger that we were the most beautiful couple ever, and that we should never  ever break up (and not really bothering to tell them that we weren't a couple).

If only mental images could be framed.