Sometimes at night when I can't fall asleep I think of your creamy skin that shone in the moonlight that summer night. I think of how the sun would hide in your presence because it was never bright compared to you, and I think about how the moon was the one that loved you because not only did it commerce with the dark but the light too. I think of the dark black of your hair when my greedy fingers would dance with it, so dark it always reminded me of the burnt cookies my grandma used to make, the ones you used to eat and tell me stories of adventures we'd take when we were older and rich. I think of how your smile would thaw the broken words that my father had yelled at me earlier in the day and replace them with words so sweet they could make cookie dough, like the one we tried to make that day at your mothers house because she slept in and we were left in the kitchen alone all afternoon with nothing but cookie dough that decorated us instead of the cookie sheet. I think of the day at the beach when you said cookies is to cream what you are to me and I remember thinking that cookies are to cream what your hair is to your skin and it made sense because you were always such a perfect paradox that even foods were named after you. And when those moments of drunken weaknesses end, I think of how dark your skin seemed when I only saw the back of it and knew it was the last of it I would ever see. And I never wondered why I suddenly hated my favorite ice cream shop that we used to go to on Sunday nights back when you didn't say you hated me and I didn't have a reason to believe you.