i'm going to make sure we get to that beach- the one in our heads. where the sun lights the sky into a glorious fire and at night everything is in dreamy shades of blue and purple and pink and its beautiful, its just beautiful, so beautiful you could cry.
tomorrow we will go snorkling (even though we both can't swim) and i'll try to find that tiny little rainbow fish my dad pointed to me when i was a kid- i sat on his shoulders and put my elbows on the top of his head and stared down into the water and couldn't tell fish from glint.
you'll take pictures of me with my camera and i'll frown and tell you to stop and we'll chase each other around the beach, feeling the sand all over our legs and the wind embracing our skin. we'll take a nap in the hammock, limbs entwined, so we can't remember where we each begin or end and we'll think of the books we force each other to read and let it drop from our fingertips.
we'll dream of the most utterly ridiculous things (at least i know i will, and i'll tell you all about them and slowly you'll begin to think that those were your dreams)- helium balloons instead of clouds hanging in the sky and wings instead of feet and the moon sings and spreads layers and layers of petals all over the earth in which springs tiny little puppies and kittens and new mysterious countries.
this is our world.
we'll hold the paintbrush together and go at it, stroke by stroke until all the other voices fade away.
and we won't have to think, "what now?" or where we're going in life, because baby, we're already here.
(at the end of the day, you're still the only one who makes me feel like this is all possible and we're going to be more than okay.)