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.

Kintsugi

historically, poems like this have been bulleted lists

of the ways in which I will fail you,

the ash in my palms

the flowers that have died in my kitchen

the sheer lack of certainty you would feel

if I were to kiss you twice in a row

but it is January, and I am opening the windows

filling my apartment with fresh air

and something inside of me is saying,

try again

I am drinking coffee in the mornings now

instead of battery acid

and I ask for the things I want

and I say no sometimes

so maybe things are looking up,

maybe

I can reach for you and I can find your shoulders

without smearing tar all over your shirt

I am starting to suspect

that the soil in my hair has not been there in vain

flowers are starting to sprout from seeds

I never knew I had planted

I know I have a tendency to fall and scrape my knees

and I’m sure it will happen again while we are walking together, but

I promise I am getting better at pulling myself up

I promise I will only ask you to give me a hand,

not to throw your back out lifting me from the sidewalk

I am consistently amazed

when I watch you breathe all the way to your toes

while you sleep next to me

it is almost like you are not afraid

that you will wake up to find me shattered, or gone

maybe this is a testament

to the sunflowers I have been swallowing,

maybe

it is time to open the cupboards

and let the broken china fall to the floor

and start mending it with molten gold

maybe I can be mended, too

maybe I already am