One Hundred and Thirty Five

I had a dream about you the other night.

We were walking, crossing streets or up a hill, I couldn't quite place us in the city. But you held my hand, so lightly but I felt it everywhere, and all at once, I felt so centered, so secure, and yet like such a child, so vulnerable, susceptible to everything, especially your eyes, your eyes always bold, always curious, always burrowing and always warm, just as warm as I always remember them. And at some point, around the fifth squeeze, by the seventh shoulder graze, the ninth shared smile, the twentieth comfortable silence, I stopped you, so hesitant in your steps, and I kissed everything away.
Every fear and second guess, every reconsideration, every catch and fall and 'wait's and 'but's and you smiled. And I kissed you again, slower, and then let you breathe, and brushed my lips against yours, and you smiled again. Smiled the softest, the silliest of flustered grins, and we chuckled, a collective exhale or relief and ease. I remember you closed your eyes so quietly and bit your lower lip carefully and we fought against time. And you, you squeezed my hand again, so shyly, and I raised my other to cup your cheek, covered it gently and stroked your jawline, and I reassured you, and your worried eyes, I touched your nose with my own, and I promised you,
"Tomorrow starts with me."