How I Sleep

The weekends when we can stay together are the best. It's you and me in a full bed, arms over shoulders, hips attached to hips, fingers intertwined. Of course at some point we separate to the outer edges of the mattress but we always hook our feet into each others’--something always touching.

And in the brief lulls between the radio alarms, the struggle to stir and start the day, you sometimes roll into my back, your head against the slope of my neck as your arms encase me. I feel the little, light flutters of your eyelashes against the sensitive skin and I wonder what you're dreaming. Because I dream about you all the time.

My mind seems set on putting you in all the places of my life you weren't apart of. Suddenly you are with me in a tree in Boston as we watch Edie and Skylar play Frisbee on the edge of the Charles River, other times it's me at a party at Lizzie and Kelly's apartment back on Camarillo as I make my way past various friends and up to the rooftop deck and there you are on the landing in a toga. (This freaks me out because those were the times of Samuel and I but yet, when I see you, it's like the most profound thing in the world.)

Every other dream is like a 'Quantum Leap' except it's you just popping into all the things I have said and done and it should be weird or off setting but instead it is the most natural of things. You should be at Tumbleweed with me and Naomi and Ruby, you should be on the lawn playing badminton with my brother and of course you're in every forward look of my life as common place as furniture and walls and sky and air.

But the best part is when the dream pulls away and I don't want to wake up but there you are--a deep breath on my back, a weighted limb across my torso and suddenly all I want to do is make everything I dreamed for the future to be true and make sure that the all of my memories have you in them.