“You!” Her voice resounded through the cheap motel room on that gloomy Tuesday morning, entering my dream and echoing inside my head. The sound started fading as did the handwritten words I was looking at in the sky in my dream, a sudden wind blew, and just like my dream, they floated away.

“Hrm?” I murmured, eyes closed shut, covering myself with the blanket, wanting to sleep more. The raindrops hit the shutters on my right in a rhythm I referred to as the nature’s drums. They knocked on them silently, delicately, waking you up with their silent song. 

“I want to hold your hand.” She said, wide awake, extending her arm over her bed towards mine, the two beds we put together so we can sleep closer to each other, to protect each other with our heartbeat, the warmth of our bodies, and the neverending river of blood pumping through our veins. 

I frowned, smacked my lips and slowly extended my hand where I presumed her would be, the white sheets wrinkling beneath my arm, carrying me towards her as waves do when you’re swimming towards the shore on a hot Summer’s day.

Her fingertips were cold, but they heated my heart a thousand times over, it swirled and danced in my chest, to the rhythm nature made just for us, to the tip-toeing sound of rain walking all over the windows of that small room we found ourselves in. 

I smiled, and as my fingers laced between hers, so did she.

(Source: pushthemovement, via mocasia)