" How long would our poem be?
How much would it weigh?
The first verse would be yours, of course−
Age before beauty, you'd say.

You would not rush so much as crest,
a wave that spreads and breaks
across the eyes and ears to fill
some deeper, inner space.

The next verse would be mine,
self-conscious, yes, it's true,
and full of fits and starts
but bits of music too.

Would we share some lines then,
just we two?
Here's a place for my words;
here, only yours will do,

And would it matter, really,
after all is said and done,
who made which piece of glory?
Who, this moon? Who, that sun?

The pen drops from my hand,
but there's still more to say.
So I must write our final line,
which is simply
stay. "

― Louise Hawes , The Language of Stars