Blissful Dreamer

I could always tell when she dreamed of me. She would wake up and spill her lips onto mine and leave them there for the longest moment, peeling them off with a sigh. Even after she arose, she’d go about her routine, making sure I was always within view.

“Good or bad this time?” I’d ask.

She’d never say. She’d climb back into bed fully clothed, pull my leg over hers and spend the next few seconds kissing my face and telling me how much she’s going to miss me when she has to leave. I’d keep my eyes closed, pretend I was still caught up in the night’s rest but her childish fingertips, working at my cheeks, couldn’t keep them closed; I had to see her eyes, they were always full of fascination (even when studying my comformable face, the ordinary only broken by my sharp nose).

Her smile. She was so happy to share that moment with me. The simplicity of just matching her stare thrilled her beyond containment and her smile spread to her eyes, which widened at the same rate as her mouth did. She had to release her intrigue and kissed me hard on the mouth.

“When I wake up to find you next to me, not a single bad thing can exist in the world.”