We'll drink poetry. Swing high on a swing set. Sleep perfect sleep. I want to taste his breath, feel the tender pull of his hand reaching for mine, and inhale every bit of dust that settles on his clothes.

He's nothing I ever imagined, but everything I ever dreamed of. And this very morning he waits for me there.

Further South.

Further West.

So I've concluded that the old wives' tale about how your ears will burn when someone is talking about you behind your back is definitely a myth.

Because for the past few weeks, people have done nothing but talk about me behind my back. And my ears have been just fine.