I can't sleep, she said, *tell me something.
"What do you want me to tell you," he asked.

Something that doesn't feel like knives, something that makes me believe that a burn can be soothed, something that doesn't sound like the way brakes screech right before the worst accident you've ever seen, followed by the gut-wrenching collision of metal on metal, like two hardened hearts trying to soften each other, but only further denting one another and spilling gasoline that ignites a fire, consuming the cars and their prisoners, something that feels like sunlight on skin that is tickled by a breeze, something that grabs my mind by the hand to slow it down, something that doesn't remind me of what will never be. I just want you to tell me something that softens the moonlight and keeps the dark parts of this room hidden. Something that will keep the sun from coming up. Something that shows me that my world hasn't stopped spinning and fallen off its axle. What do you tell yourself when you need that? Will you tell me the truth, or just something beautiful?

"I can tell you that both exist in one word I whisper to myself every night."

Then he said her name, barely audible, and her eyes closed.