In a world where everyone wants to make the impossible possible, you are the only possibility I am forbidden to make real.
If they call me selfish, they would be right. I am selfish beyond measure—for the touch of your hands, for capturing the moment your eyelids flutter, for the wind weaving through your wavy, dancing hair. When it comes to having all of you, I am the most selfish of all.
Selfishly, I wish I could be nothing more than a dusty dress, so your hands could brush across me and you could shake the dust from me. I wish I could be a horse with a wild, tangled mane, so your gentle hand could stroke my head and soothe me.
My selfishness, my greed, comes from the fact that I am none of these things to you. And somehow, that alone is enough to make me resent everything—and everyone—around you.