In a month’s time I may feel differently,
but at this moment I am prepared to swear
that I would like nothing better than to spend
the rest of my life
picking the fallen hairs from your shoulders.
I would grow out my fingernails just for that purpose.
I would give up the ocean
for the mud puddles of your eyes.
We could move to South Dakota
and howl among the tornadoes
and stomp across the prairies
and fall asleep in each other’s arms
as sweat pools in the crevices of our elbows
and crop-dusters drone overhead.