Live with me underground. Let me take you away. We need to get away. From work and family and washing machines and overdue bills and broken screens. I have small pills and when we wake up, we will forget that foolish life above ground. We will have a very tiny dirt castle. Just for you! Just for me! I will plant flowers from the ceiling for you, and they will bloom over our heads. Wildflowers. Blossoms will sweep the hair from my face and this will make me beautiful. My skin will glow. I will smell lovely always! All parts of me! Flowers bloom round and perfect. Their fragrance will never grow heady with decay. Petals will never darken and turn crispy and papery like overcooked bacon. Oh no! Not in the underground world. Flowers will lift and flutter in the air from opening or closing doors. Like curtains by an open window. But there will, obviously, be no open windows or closed windows or windows. Our world will be quite dark. But we won’t know it so we won’t have a word for it. In the way that it doesn’t rain grass above ground so we never comment that it is or isn’t raining grass. In this world of ours where it isn’t dark or not dark, streets and hills and bookshelves and kitchens are made of banked dirt that is a lovely rich brown color and the loamy dirt crumbles sometimes, but we don’t mind. We braid flower stems into brooms and sweep up regularly. It’s what we do, like how we brush our teeth or unload the dishwasher above ground. It’s how we pass days. We sweep often. Also often, we pick armfuls of flowers and fill mattress covers. We press the lengths of our bodies into the flower ticking and we make love on a rustling mattress. Flowers snap their fingers and crack slim knuckles in the air in our underground bedroom and we breathe through the flowers and the pollen dusts our lungs green and glowing and we make love until our bodies begin blooming. We have been seeded in our lungs and our palms itch when the buds break through and our legs lengthen with waxy stems pulling their fibrous bands through us and our skin softens. We are soft everywhere. We are a garden in bloom. Petals fall around us and we breathe them into our lungs and the seedlings pull at our fingers and roots stretch open our legs and our feet flutter above our heads, like flower petals under the sun and wind above ground, for which, remember, we have no words. Our ankles tremble and our feet flutter and we turn warm under the mid afternoon underground sun.