We’ll start our mornings entwined, waiting for the sun to peek out behind the taffeta curtains we chose together one goofy Sunday.

As sunlight scorches the night off our skins, you’ll kiss me good morning, and I will smile without knowing it—every time.

We’ll get dressed together, huddled in front of a messy dresser that’s decorated with pieces of you and I. You, in the crack on the corner of the mirror from dancing a little too hard that one time. Me, in the half-open box of plasters I needed back when I was breaking in my now favorite pair of ruby red heels, scattered by the sink.

Our rooms will be filled with junk food crumbs from movie nights in and invisible echoes of laughter will be plastered on the walls. As I conceal the ash under my eyes, you’ll fasten your forever-crooked tie. We’ll spend our days chasing our dreams and come home with stories to share.

Not every day will be pretty.

Some days you’ll come home with stitched eyebrows or concrete shoulders. Some days I’ll collapse, an ocean rippling in sobs onto your lap. But we will come home to each other every night, knowing our hearts, and hands will never go cold.

I’ll try my best to smoothen out your concrete with silly faces and pillow-soft words. You will scoop the sea glass off my cheeks with chords of your guitar. You’ll paint or sing your aches away, and my pain will be expelled through paragraphs in wrinkled books.

I will kiss your callused, rainbow fingertips, and you will stroke the ink off my tired hands.

I will love you through every scar, every pitchfork, and every challenge. Until your eyes crinkle like sugar paper and your knees no longer bend. You will be mine, and I will be yours.

Until I meet you though,
Mr. Stranger of the future,
The time I spend now
Will be on me
And sometimes, maybe,
wondering about
Who it is
You’ll turn out to be.

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Author: Naomi Hon

Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: alarzy at Flickr