Cageless

I no longer dream
of extraordinary things

Not anymore

I dream of a quiet kitchen at dawn

I dream of open windows
A slow walk at dusk
beneath a sky turning the color
of bruised peaches and old paintings

I want less noise now
Less performance
Less of this endless human habit
of proving we are worthy of being loved

What I want now is simple
and therefore sacred

A sink full of dishes after dinner

The soft weight of my sleeping cats in sunlight

Music drifting through the house at midnight

And love
if it finds me again
must arrive gently

No grasping hands
No crowded silences
No love that mistakes possession for intimacy

I want someone calm enough
to sit beside my quiet
without trying to translate it

Someone who understands
that my space

my art, my time
the invisible interior life of me, has always been cageless

Not distant
Not cold

Simply alive in quiet ways

Like birds disappearing into evening trees

Like moonlight moving freely across the floor

Like poems arriving at 2 a.m.
asking for nothing except room to breathe

Because after all these years
I think love should feel less like fire
and more like light from another room

soft, steady, enduring

the kind that lets you remain fully yourself
while never letting you forget
you are deeply—gently
not alone