It is now eighty-one minutes past the start of the day. For sixty whole seconds, I thought of nothing but you. And I would have jumped at the chance to savor 00:00 with you tonight, would have fought to be there just for sixty seconds, had I known that without you midnight is just midnight. I think the countdown would taste amazing on your skin. The delight would mold itself to my hands, like maybe your hip bones would. You could tap the seconds into my hand. Our fingers would lie warm together in your hoodie pocket. I have become far too invested in this.

My tongue rests behind my teeth. My fingers fall carefully to the keys. My words sit heavy in my lap.

You are the rose I will ask for.