I Haven’t Gone Skinny Dipping Yet

I don’t want to die, at least not yet.

I haven’t run down the limestone-lined streets of Lauterbrunnen

or felt the spray of all its seventy-two waterfalls.

I haven’t gone skinny dipping under golden moonlight

or backpacked for a week with my best friend.

I haven’t stopped caring what my parents think of me; they still don’t know how much I swear.

I haven’t floated up in a hot air balloon and released my fears into the wispy clouds.

I haven’t finished my romance novel, the one where a forty-year-old woman breaks her rules and follows her curiosity like an eight-year-old kid.

I still need to know what it feels like to laugh so loud that the whole cafe turns to see who made that sound.

I haven’t accepted who I am, still wishing I were someone else sometimes, with her body, her hair, her smile, her career, her story.

I want to follow my own path with heedless joy and be the ninety-year-old woman who brightens every room.

I want to experience what it’s like to love someone so hard I could explode,

and witness a toucan in the wilds of South America.

I haven’t painted my toenails hot pink or

read Mary Oliver poems with someone while snuggled up under the coziest duvet.

Can I die when I'm a million years old?

Is it okay to be greedy for more adventures?