Amaranthine

Amaranthine

Half asleep, your lips dance from the palm of my hand to the tips of my fingers, then tucked under your cheek. You breathe deeply, soaking contentment into the pillow with three words on the outbreath and air I can feel.

I will stay here, sixty minutes spent in stillness but tuned in to every twitch.

I could stay here, write an essay from the ink on your skin.

Can I stay here, somewhere I can keep this?