Dreams

I dream of making forts with our mattress under our kitchen table, using candles as light, making love for hours on the bare bed. I dream of the smell of your skin after a day of life entering my nose like aromatherapy as I hold you close, your shoulder under my chin.

I fantasize about our sex, sensual and passionate, fun and exciting. Your prickly stubble scratching my face and body as you kiss me from my head to my feet, seemingly covering every inch of skin exposed to the world. Your kisses heal my cuts and scrapes, physical and emotional, brought on my my clumsiness and fragile spirit. You remind me that I am beautiful and that all you want is to wake up in my arms.

I dream that you have a new name. I never have to use words to call you to me. It's merely a thought, a gesture of the mind that pulls you to my side where you can hold my hand and squeeze just gently enough so that I feel my ring press against my middle and last fingers. The ring that you gave me when you told me that you never wanted to look into anyone's eyes other than mine ever again. Our world is magical under our table. In our fort. Where the candle wax drips over the edges of small plates we use to catch the drops that fall like rain on a dreary day. Where the mattress slips and resists, like a hedgehog's spines or my hair after I buzz it. Where we have to move slowly, not only for the safety of our skulls, but because every moment we reside in our castle is not enough for us.

Because when you call me close to you so that I can squeeze your hand, you feel that same pressure on your two fingers from the ring I gave to you when I said:

I want to share my castle walls with you until the day I die.