There is a dream I have yet to dream.

The sunlight creeps lazily through the cracks in the blinds, fitting for a Sunday morning. I sit, back to the wall, comfortable on the floor to watch her dreaming fitfully in the amber dusky dawn. She is a painting stolen from childhood dreams, dreams of hope, hopeless dreamer I was.

And now she is here, stirring before me, trusting me to watch over her as she dozes, my first, last, and every thought.

She rises, gliding from point to point as she moves about her day. She stops to kiss me gently on the lips, to run her hands playfully through my hair, to touch my hand. She is unconscious of how radiant she is, of how my heart sometimes forgets to beat and my lungs forget to draw air when I am with her, of how much she means to me.

And she pauses, by the bedstand, in front of a picture of us. And she smiles, forgetting my presence for a moment to think of me. And she sees the note I wrote her as she slept, picks is up, unfolds it, reads the dream that I never dreamt but lived instead. She is silent, motionless, but when she finally does turn toward my seating place, I see a small solitary tear running down her cheek. She smiles, moved by my words and my eyes and the way they drink her in, and whispers.

I love you.