After careful consideration

I've come to realize

I prefer being dirty.

I do like to be clean, for sure;

along with the sun baths,

the echo of your steps,

the gentle brush of the broom,

and the orange-scented cleaner.

However, against my better judgment,

I cannot help to be moved

whenever I hold a fluff of your hair,

feel the fresh garden soil on the stairs,

or see a booger drop from the wall.

Ah! Dirt gives me comfort, yes.

It reminds me that I am inhabited.

Imagine the sadness

of being removed, for good,

from your skin or tears...

Oh! What a cruel thought to have!

Being spotless

scares me.

The idea of perfection

terrifies me.

Hallelujah, things get dirty again!

I feel reassured

by such a trivial truth.

I am grateful

for the testament of life

you bestow upon me every day.

And however long this cycle lasts

know it is my pride and joy

to be the vessel of your time.