i’m writing and you’re sleeping.

i’m writing and you’re sleeping and we’re both dreaming and wishing and we’re in italy, where we’re sipping wine and sampling cheeses and asking each other “have you tried this one yet?”

we pick two favorites and grab a bottle of wine for the road. we drink and wander and take it all in, my heels clicking on the cobblestones below our feet. i’m wearing red and you’re wearing that hat and your eyes are the bluest i’ve ever seen them.

i’m writing and you’re sleeping and you’re playing a sold out show. i’m sitting in a velvet chair and singing along at the top of my lungs and i’m so proud of you i might cry. every face is turned towards you and twenty drunk girls are dancing and you’re selling out of t-shirts for twenty, cd’s for ten.

i’m writing and you’re sleeping and i have to go home early because i have two shows the next day. you’ll crawl into bed late and wrap your arms around me and, i, half-dreaming, will remind you again how talented you are, how proud of you i am. you’ll come to the evening performance the next night, even though you’ve already seen my show six times. 

in twenty minutes, i’ll wake you up. you’ll groan and throw a pillow over your head and ask for just a little longer. i’ll kiss you and remind you we have places to be.

tonight, i’ll wear lipstick and drink whiskey and be so proud of you. 

tonight, we’ll come home together and fall into bed and there will be no other place i’d rather be.