He dreamed a lot more when she was around.

He would close his eyes each night with the vision of her milky soft face cupped in his hands, in his mouth. Sleep came quickly and when he woke he always remembered his dreams.

Her name echoed in his every move. He was happiest with her, and sometimes he was so scared he would lose her that at night he would scratch his chest, drawing blood and feeling the pain he would surely feel when he lost her.

And he never wanted to lose her.

When thoughts like that came creeping in his head his body would be overtaken by grief. But when he was with her, in her love, all worries would be blown away.

He lived on her kisses.

He lived in her kisses.

When she went away for a while he wrote long letters telling her everything she was not around to see. And when he was writing those letters he felt better, like she was with him. And at night he would concentrate as hard as he could and sometimes he could imagine her head next to his on the pillow, taken in by sleep.

Pale eyes closed, pretty lips slightly apart.

And sleep air coming from them.

Sleep air that was rightfully his.

But was not.

He wished with all his heart that he could have met her in ten years. Then they would be living together, loving even more, and she would be next to him. And their sleep air would mingle on the ceiling of the room, together. He knew they were too young, but somehow he was sure they would outlast all. They were stronger than other people. Their love could beat anything. Even the hardest years.

So at nights he closed his eyes and imagined their sleep air together on the ceiling.

And he dreamed and was brought up and swirled around in currents of love.