Peachy Plans

Slicing the apples with sticky fingers, your laugh spilling like sunlight on our stained kitchen floor. Oranges ripen on the sill, under all our dreaming. I say, let's make Madrid getaway real — & like a soft gentle hum our dreams get a little closer. Kaya curls in jam jars, our feets tangle beneath a table too small for the lives we keep trying to fit into it. Or perhaps Paris so we can climb the Eiffel tower & ride in old metros, a paper floorplan folded into quarters, like a promise we'll one day unfold carefully. We plan in whispers— tiny dependencies woven between candle wax and cracked mugs. And maybe this is home: not the city, but the look you give me when you ask, "Should I stay?" but you already know I want you to.