Living, with chronic pain, is like sharing a space with a younger version of myself. At night, I let her come into my room, she is slow, delicate like a child sneaking into bed. Her nature knows, no childish mischief like that of a child up past bedtime. She knows– all the corners of my tired mind where my nerves sag like telephone wires. She knows– where to lay an icy touch and play in the realms of my life, before we met and, she knows– how to go to bed, at night and wake with me in the morning.