Sweet dreams are made of these. Nights spent sitting whispering quietly. The radio filling comfortable silences. Drumming with the beat, my fingertips softly against your palm. A rush of conversation followed by gaps of silent smiles. Ignoring the world encased in snow. The masses stopped short by frosty panes of glass. Inside our bubble a look and a touch tell more of a story than any newspaper article. Dark except for the reflections of the streetlights and the green glow of numerals slowly counting the time. And it is here, limited by time, unconfined by smiles, that we have truly slipped the surly bonds of Earth. I hope you are not one to disagree.
I could travel the world and back in one conversation with you.