Tell Me

Tell me something,

anything,

so that I can see your world 

through a clearer lens.

List off your favorites, sure,

but also tell me how the sand feels 

between your toes

and how your body dances with waves 

long after you are dry.

Tell me how you hate airports 

because they mean goodbye,

and that you have never forgotten 

the smell of your grandmother's house, 

like pancakes and lilacs and jewelry polish.

Tell me something,

anything.

Tell me how you call the dj 22 times 

to win Spice Girl tickets-

and how that still isn't 

the most embarrassing thing you have done.

Tell me how your father never hugged you, 

but that your mother held you too tightly.

Tell me of the nights you spent on the roof, 

wishing for someone else's life.

Tell me something, 

Darling.

Don't for a moment consider your minutiae 

anything less than extraordinary. 

Tell me.