What It Feels Like To Stay

I find myself asking questions like:

What would happen if I stayed curled under you like ribbon

for the next ten years,

twenty,

fifty?

How long would it take for us to turn to soil –

food for the flowers you brought me –

and make our bed into a home for grass snakes and earthworms?

There is something about the slowness

of your hands in my hair

that makes me want to stretch out like a stone, stay here for decades,

and wait for your breath to run over me like water

smoothing my edges and polishing my skin

until I am soft and green in your palms.

I want to ask you questions like:

How long will you stay canopied over me,

all rainforest sounds, the hush of hibiscus blooming,

shielding me from the scorch of the Texas sun?

How long do you want me here,

in the crook of your elbow,

eyes closed,

drinking you up?

Because I could stay here

for the next ten years,

twenty,

fifty,

watching the stars spin above us,

waiting for time to get tired of passing,

holding each other by the waist

and knowing

that we are right where we are supposed to be.