We sleep on clouds you can't reach. We paint whole rooms with promises, on our hands and knees, marking each other up.
We race backwards in time to name cereals and cartoon superheroes. We scream "Oh yeah!" and "Who knew?," and race each other up cliffs for rock candy kisses, even though we both win.
We build cities you'll never live in, big and majestic, made for two or three or four, but no more. We are so careful.
We star in our own fables, slaying monsters with long embraces, the very long kind where they can't breathe.
We write letters on skin as thin as tissue and mail them to the future postmarked "Return to sender. Always."