I dream of a boy who calls me up late at night and says: look out your window, its me waiting in the cap, put on your most swirly dress, I want to take you dancing!
On grey Sunday mornings he’ll wake me up my kissing my nose and drawing animals with his finger on my back.
We will lie in his big brass bed with all the windows open listening to vinyl records and in the afternoon we’ll go for long walks through the nearest parks and streets.
His walk will be swagging and light (like he’s always walking on air) just like Bob Dylan and sometimes he’ll stop and kiss me while holding my face with both of his hands. Sunglasses on, nice haircut and the pants a bit too short for his long legs.
In the evening in the dark corner of a warm cafe we’ll eat dinner and talk about books and art and about how autumn smells like burned wood and moss and hot chocolate.
And before I go to sleep he’ll sing to me sitting in a chair with a guitar almost bigger than himself.
And I’ll look at his slender fingers as they move up and down the strings while my eyelids gets heavier and heavier.
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