Chicago Spring

I’m layered to the sixes now. The 45 degree air tips at my leather jacket. This is colder than it should feel and rounding May I’m over it. The buds on the trees are too, trying like they want the sky to be.

Cuddle weather with longer days. I ache to feel my skin radiate with the sun. I want the tan of my ancestors. I want to crave the lake. I want my breasts to not be congested by paneling, or my legs to be contained in something labeled skinny.

And for the wind to make my hair wild, and to make the tops of my ears sing.

But most of all, I want to feel warm, starting from my chest and moving out through my fingertips so that my touch feels like a love poem even with innocent intent.I long to be weightless like the air that touches the crest of the waves on the shoreline.

Indulgent like the hot dogs they sell on the road side.

Adored like spotting neighbors also drinking on patios.

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