I hope the birds don't wake up. I hope the sun never rises again. I hope the world collapses into the Sauleovitches' yard, there with the treehouse and the groves of ripening crab apples, so I'll never know anything else. I don't ever need to be afraid of the dark again; in the breezes of the trees, ghosts won't beckon anymore.
The curls of her hair tangle in my fingers, she buries herself beside me, so that every inch of her skin I can feel loves me in return. Her nose isn't as big as she says it is all the time, and even if it was, I'd love her anyway. The curves of its cartilage are cluttered with delicate freckles. Her face is next to mine, so that it is blissfully the only thing I see. It would be the sole thing I'd gaze at forever had I the chance, and the chance is here and now.
Masses of her dark hair falling silently upon my shoulders, her big gooseberry eyes meet mine, and she grins her lopsided cabdriver grin.
“Breezy?” I manage, sounding clogged by my own newfound glory.
“Ash?”
“I love you.”
“Me too. I love me too.”
And then her face is pressed against mine, delicately breathing life into my trembling lips with hers. Then, giggling in my ear, she whispers:
“Naw, just kidding. I love you more.”