When I Don’t Know What I Need

I want to wake up at five in the morning. 
I want two slices of my sister’s sourdough bread. 
I want the bread to be toasted evenly on both sides. 
I want one packet of butter for each of the slices. 
I want the toaster to take the chill off my skin. 
I want coffee to do that for my insides. 
I want enough creamer to turn the blackness into copper. 
I want to remember to put on classical music every morning. 
I want to be able to play “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair” all the way through. 
I want the A key in octave five to stop distracting me with its cry. 
I want to be alone with the piano for a while. 
I want Debussy to come back to life. 
I want to drown in the piano like the hard butter in the hot bread. 
I want to notice every note bleeding into the next. 
I want to forget about every mistake I have made. 
I want to forget the room I’m in. 
I want to forget the bright yellow wallpaper that reminds me of Soviet times. 
I want to forget the freezing draught from the AC. 
I want to forget that I am running on four hours of sleep. 
I want my fingers to remember the notes without needing my conscious consent. 
I want the few morning hours to feel like a separate day. 
I want to know that learning the piano was worthwhile. 
I want to check the calendar for today’s date and feel surprised. 
I want to stay awake for longer than a day.