This is not a grain of sand, I think, as I pick the last grain of sand from your scalp. It looks more like Mars and sticks easy on my salt stained palm. This must be how the sun felt, on the first day, about that tiny crooked rock in her hands, willing it to be something more, unable to do anything but stare. Sometimes I wish I had asked what makes you so sure that the planet I hold, plucked from the top of your skull, can't sustain life. Often, I wish I had just said what I meant. With my legs bent on either side of you, I lick salt and sand from my palm. I know you are right, but I still would have named a whole universe after you if you'd let me. I plant my arms in the sand like tent stakes and rest my forehead on your warm shoulder. You remain still so soft to me, even under layers of dust. The earth seems to spin faster everytime I try to hold on tighter. Always, I wish to return to you here.