i’m thinking of lying down on the windowsill in the dotted cloudy sunlight that’s really grey and smoking your cigarettes even though you don’t smoke and neither do i. my 20s dress would hang down the wall inside the room, my outside leg would line the sill, and the inside one would be bent to prop my arm. it would be early, maybe 8, though i’m not sure if there would be music playing. my mum wouldn’t be home, and you’d be spread across my little girl pink comforter, your beautiful hair the only thing not fade by morning and overcast skies. it would glow so much that i’d get over my silver obsession if only to run my fingers through its goldenness. i’d exhale un-oxygen out the window, watching it a moment before turning back to look at you, inhaling again and again. you would feed my eyes. then, i’d crush out the cigarette on the brick wall, slowly step down from the windowsill on to my darkwood dresser, before stepping across a space to my bed. you would sit up a little and take my hand, pulling me down next to you. you would stare into my eyes and i into yours. you’d smile then, bring my face to yours and carefully kiss me. then you’d wrap you arms around my shoulders so that my head would be cradled in your neck and we would just lay there, thinking about paradise, denim, sand and oceans. you’d play idly with the seashells braided into my hair and i’d trace patterns on your t-shirt across your chest. you’d smile and kiss my forehead and i’d half giggle and wriggle closer to you, my face right on your neck. then we’d fall asleep, and that would be all.