The warm sunlight glows, whispering against our skin, I cover you up with myself resting onto your chest, claiming you away from the sun. The soft blankets tangle around our feet I steal the suns job, warm you with myself and whisper my own words to your skin

         And your eyelashes flutter as dreams race behind your eyes. Your hand is tangled with mine, with the sheets, with my hair, I'm tangled with you. My heart leaps as an unconscious smile slides across your expired midnight face. And the sunlight is dappled across your face, creating in the expression a wonderful shade of warmth.

          I press my lips into you, into your skin and I smile against it when you mutter wisps of your dreams to the air. I always said you talked in your sleep spilling into the world the dreams that would bloom inside your beautiful mind.

          And when your eyes flutter open, and I’m pressed like a flower against your shoulder, you curl around me and move your face down to mine. I whisper words of contentment, and you whisper words of love, and together we drift off into dreams, sealed with a quiet kiss.


          Our words remain on each other’s skin; your dreams remain in the air. Our love lingers in our apartment filled to the bursting with our letters, our vowels. You would toss in your sleep, muttering more broken sentences to fill the cluttered air. Sometimes I worried that one day it might burst open and we’d lose everything, I frantically scribbled down every word I had heard us say and when you asked why I was writing I scribbled a note towards you describing my theory. I was worried our words would end badly in the world. You just lent in, whispering to my ear. Don’t worry, go on, speak, we always end badly anyway.


         And I ran with it. Our theory. It covered our walls, our mirrors, our clothes, our closets, our bodies, your dreams and my mind. And I didn’t want it to end badly. I couldn’t let it badly. It always ended badly, and it couldn’t. It wouldn’t, I wouldn’t let it. And so I wrote. I wrote what he said, and what I said, and our arguments when they turned to nights alone. 


          I started keeping journals of our words, the blue for happy words the green for words of love and the plaid for words of anger. I had always thought you looked good in plaid, just like I always thought you looked good angry. I am almost finished the plaid notebook the notes in the margins of my apologies you'll never read, spilled out onto the pages  enveloping the sharp words we spoke; those words I could stand to lose

          Which was ironic. I never could stand to lose any part of you. Even your angry parts. They showed me that you were human. You weren’t perfect. You could laugh at unfunny jokes, and cry during happy movies, and dance to bad songs, and be perfect when you were less than perfect. You could scream and I would secretly piss you off. I'd anger you on purpose, I’d have a notebook ready at my side. Because you're beautiful when you’re mad at me.

           You're beautiful when you're mad at me but the next morning you always found a way to make it better. When I broke the alarm clock last night you went to sleep irritated with me. I stayed up another hour trying to remember our argument, the bic pen in my hand; at the desk I cataloged it neatly away in the plaid notebook and slipped into the bed beside you.

           And I awoke to pancakes and flowers, and my head resting on his slowly rising chest. A note pinned to his shirt read: I’m so sorry. If you’d known. I wouldn’t have yelled. But you just stood there. I just kinda died for you. And you just kind of stared at me.

          I took the note from your shirt smiling you had written your words for me, and I almost moved, I almost moved to tuck it into the green notebook. the paper crumpled in my fingers I tossed it to the floor, moving my head back to your chest closing my eyes to drift back to sleep; the pancakes could go cold for all I cared I wasn’t moving.