She turned on her side and brushed the strands of curls that fell into his face with the swipe of her thumb.

Though he hated it, she loved his hair.

He used to complain and tell her it had a mind of its own, but she enjoyed its thoughts, and the stories it whispered in her ears while her head rested on the pillow next to his. When he slept, she'd take a lock between her calloused fingers and study each strand. That one ringlet that would slip out of line and gently graze his forehead, was her favorite. When he realized it's presence, he'd roll his eyes and push it away. But it would always sneak back out, and him, sighing, would always give up the battle. Each time, she was glad he did.

Her eyes were still full of sleep and her hair still disheveled as she played with his hair, admiring his long lashes. Her voice still woven with sleep, she chuckled lightly at her own silly admiration. Slowly, his eyes flickered open and she smiled. "Did you sleep alright?" She asked softly. She did not want to appear bothersome - she was only concerned. His motions slow and slumber some, he nodded slightly. Her smile grew knowing he was not awake enough to fully respond. Gently, he exhaled slowly and breathed the word darling into her concave collarbone. As he stirred, she held her gaze out the window, not wanting to bear the heaviness of his words. She rolled over to face away from him. In one brisk motion, he wrapped an arm around her waist and she tucked her body into his in response. His nimble fingers drew small circles on her thighs. "Why did you do it", he whispered. His fingers chased the scars that ran up her thighs and up her hips. She gnawed on her lip, thinking up an answer. "Doesn't matter", she said. "Hey. Look at me." He said. She rolled over to meet his gaze.

"I love you." He said.

His eyes were as brown as the soil a loved one lies beneath for eternity; the smooth rich coffee beans whose scent when crushed is overpowering for a caffeine addict.

He put on every winter coat that he's owned since ‘98 and every midnight sees the countdown to another awful day.

No longer does he practice writing his suicide note in both print and cursive.

There are times when he listens to the telephone ring and that is enough effort for one day. On rare occasions when he likes to leave his bed, he will pick up the phone and pretend to be the operator on a suicide hotline.

He thinks of unrequited love in colors that don't exist, and shapes and letters that have yet to define the word, "Arizona"; the simplest word of all is also the most difficult to say.