She places her book, marked with
a coupon I've been meaning to use,
on the nightstand. She turns the light
out on her side. It's her side, her light.
The left side is mine.

Night.

Night.

We're past clutching love. We're
not married, but I think I know
what it means. It's two lonely
people; it's two sides of the bed.
It doesn't take her long to fall asleep.
I watch her forehead unwrinkle.
I listen as her inhales and exhales
become spaced and even. At this moment,
I do not know her. She's not a woman.
All the inviting curves collapse. She is
a girl breathing in, breathing out.

In a memory she related to me--I think
she related to me--she asks a boy to give her
a turn on a swing. It's toward the end of recess.
She has waited. He says no. This is my swing.
She says it is the school's. He says the school
isn't sitting in it. I can almost remember why
she told me this story or some story like it.

I can't sleep without my fan on. She can't
fall asleep with it. I'll give her a couple more
minutes. I wonder what violence she dreams
of, of what forbidden ecstasy she views in
her private night. I do not know her. She
looks vulnerable, her body now bent in an S shape,
facing away from me. Am I scared for her? Of her?
Still sleeping, she bunches up her comforter;
she brings it to her face. Maybe that's marriage: being
scared for and of.

I turn on the fan. She stirs.

I'm sorry. I'll turn it off.

You can leave it on.

I'll turn it off.

Leave it.

She pulls my arm under her neck.
She brings her bottom against my thighs.

Will you hold me? Just for a second.

I can hold you longer.

Just a second.

Dear Michael,
     I honestly have a lot to say. I'm not even sure where to start. I guess I'll go with something I've been thinking about lately. I've been meaning to say thank you. I'm not sure if I have ever told you this, but I mean it. I am thankful that you cared enough to listen to me. I am thankful that you cared about me even when I believed nobody did. I am so thankful for you.

    I keep trying to think of what it must've been like to hear what was going on with me. I, personally, thought you could care less. Even though you showed me you cared by bringing me to the counselors office and staying after to talk to me, I didn't understand. I was so completely immersed in my thoughts that I didn't realize that it must've been hard for you. I'm sure they questioned you, asked you what I said when you told them what happened. And I do not blame you for telling them, it's your job. But, you didn't just tell them because you're obligated too, right You care, I know you do. And if you wouldn't have cared, i believe I wouldn't be here writing this, listening to vinyls and studying for my 9th grade exams. Let that sink in for a second. Just because you cared, I am here. I am alive. Yes, other things an people contributed, but in the end you were the only person who I believed actually cared if I was alive or dead. It's scary, feeling so alone. It wasn't even a feeling anymore. It was real.

      Anyways, I believe you showed me light. I believe that I owe you so much. I owe you my life, the things I accomplish and the love I give. You can tell me I don't, but I know I do. Thank you for letting me live and breathe and smile and cry and laugh and learn and see the stars. Thank you so so so much.

            Love Always and Forever,

                                                           Rach