I dream of getting lost with you. I paint the walls of my mind with pictures of us, but they fade and blur, the paint smudged and streaked. Maybe someday we’ll sit on the kitchen floor and eat ice-cream straight out of the carton. Maybe I’ll lose myself in the hidden parts of you, and every time I breathe I’ll inhale the essence of what we are. What if we laid on the bed fully clothed while the rain poured down outside, and we said nothing because nothing needed saying, and I bit my nails down to the quick the night before in mad excitement at the thought of seeing your face again. I could make the tea black and clasp the mug while you read me a stupid story that you found the other day and I’ll play music on the stereo, including that song that always reminded me of you but of course I’d never tell you that. The movies lie, they say that you’ll just know when I’m dying inside and hiding it with a smile, but you won’t, though you’ll always be there and I’ll mend myself while you sleep next to me. I’ll touch your hair while we watch that TV show that makes you laugh and maybe, just maybe, you’ll take my hand in yours.