The only luxury

He asks me, smiling,
like he already knows the answer,
like he’s just making a game out of it…

“so what expensive present
are you giving me for Christmas?”

He says it the way he says my name,
Sreedhari…
soft around the edges,
teasing,
sure of his place in my life
like a hand at my back.

“Expensive,” I say,
and let it shimmer…
like I mean diamonds,
like I mean trouble.

I make him wait.
I like the way he watches.
He’s a good man…
patient in that sweet way
that makes you want
to be better without feeling owned.

“Okay,” I tell him.
“First: pencil shavings
from my favorite pencil.”
Little curled ribbons…
all that careful waste..
tucked away in a tiny box
like they’re rare,
like they’re yours
because you are.

Then, for luxury,
a paperclip
holding the important stuff:
Chickadee, Pound Town, Henrietta,
every nickname you ever gave me…
the ordinary proof
we keep making a life
out of small, ridiculous things.

He laughs, leans closer.
“C’mon,” he says.
“you can do better.”

Oh, I can.
I let my mouth curve
like a secret unwrapping.

I’ll turn the living room
into a smoky little church
where the only hymn
is your name in my mouth
and the only prayer
is my hips saying
yes, yes,
like they’ve been practicing.

I’ll let you press your laughter
into my throat
until I swallow it
like whiskey…
warm, a little reckless,
the good kind of dizzy.

I’ll drag the hem of my sari
across your patience
slow enough
to make you forget
you were pretending to be polite.

I’ll make you believe
you invented hunger,
and then I’ll kiss you
for thinking you did.

When he tries to act casual
like he’s not wrecked,
I tap his knee:
“careful. this is premium.”

“Still,” he says, smiling,
“expensive.”

So I sigh, like I’m giving in.
“Okay. the real gift.”

I’ll give you
the most dramatic thing I own
that still feels gentle to say…
every day I’ve got left.

Not as a threat,
not as a ledger,
not even as a promise I can control…
just my honest intention
to keep choosing you.

The pretty days, sure:
brunch-and-sunlight in quaint diners,
your hand warm on my waist,
your grin when I catch you watching me.

And the plain ones too..
Monday mornings with sleepy hair,
a kitchen that needs cleaning,
a long week that doesn’t need any rhymes…

just your voice,
my voice,
making it through together.

I’ll give you my time
the way you give me yours…
no performance,
no proving,
just love
showing up again.

He looks at me
with that gentleness that gets me…
proud, quietly happy,
like the gift already fits.

“Damn,” he says.
“That’s pretty expensive.”

“Yeah,” I tell him,
pulling him in by the collar,
playful, sure.

“Good thing,” I whisper,
“you’re the only luxury I keep.”