I dreamt you were a lemur. And I loved you.

I loved your furry little ears and your wet lemur nose. Your orange eyes and your rough, black hand, wrapped around my index finger—I loved them too. Because you’re mine.

We slept together in this dream. You were cuddled up in my arms, your soft little sighs waking me up just enough to smile and slip back into sleep. Your fur warm against my side. The mat on the floor firm, the walls thin and the sounds of the night flickering from beyond.

In the morning, we ate breakfast. Mine was a bitter coffee and sweet flatbread. Yours was tamarind leaves and a mango.

After breakfast, we went outside. When you jumped out of my arms and did your funny little sideways hopping run towards the road, a battered old truck careening towards you, I called you back—and you came. And I loved you.

You’re not a lemur, of course. And I love you.