Someone.

I want to be your someone.  I want to see you grin.
Cheesy, I know, but real nonetheless.
I know you don't need to hear it, but I do love you.

I used to dream of the New York City Ballet.  Not the corps, but the principal, the prima ballerina.  Visions of the grand entrance with my picture plastered outside, me as clara, the swan princess, Juliet.  At the ripe old age of 30 perhaps I would retire, living in a high rise in the Village and teaching an exclusive class for other young dancers.  This dream died when I turned 12.

Next I saw myself on a stage just off Times Square.  Center stage with a spotlight, looking searchingly into the darkened balcony.  The audience would weep as I did, and at the end of every show my bow would come last to a standing crowd who would proclaim "Brava, brava!"  For years I held this, examining it each night before I slipped into sleep, embellishing and fast forwarding through the bitter details.  One year, I got to die onstage.  The house of 300 almost sold out one night; my greatest hour.

Now I have a different dream.  I am standing alone, looking at myself in a glass.  My reflection is wearing white, and I am carrying lilies.  I linger on this thought, because I don't want to wear out what comes next.  You, at the end of a grassy lawn, looking back at me.  You are smiling and somehow things are just right.  I don't know how but I am with you and you are looking into my eyes and I know. Later I will drink and dance and my father will tell me he is happy and proud of me- of us.  The night will spin on and on until we are alone again, and you are telling me that this is forever.

This is my dream now.  This is what keeps me living with passion.  You don't want to hear this, I know, but the idea of living a simple life with you makes me breath a little easier.  I love you, and I won't stop saying it.  I love you, and I want to be your someone.