Sometimes I watch the soft gray light of the moon float in through the blinds and touch her with its staccato lines. I'm jealous of it. It moves when she moves; sometimes it runs across her chest, delicate on the old t-shirt, but when she rolls over it slides across her, brushing her lower back where the shirt lifts up and reveals smooth pale skin. Watching that light, sometimes it's hard to tell where the moon ends and she begins.

I like to count the number of kisses it takes to cover random parts of her body. Her left hand is 47 kisses in area, which sounds like a lot, but is actually just right. What if the kiss became a unit of measurement? Like Crayola bombs, that spread joy; or the speed of love, which is not quite as fast as that of lust, and is much like the metric system in that it is superior but not used in America anyway. I wonder how fast light is in terms of love, or how many kisses square the moon is.

Sometimes she wakes up and sees me and I feel a little sad that her peace is disturbed and a little breathless that I can see her eyes. Gray in the moon, bright with the moon. Mostly she just rolls over, but I see her smile when she does it, and it kills me a little each time. Sometimes she asks me what I'm thinking, softly, so as not to disturb the lines of light resting precariously on her shoulder. I lie, and tell her how much I love her red hair. I do it because she pouts when I say that, and flicks her dirty blond hair with a shake of her head. Light flashes, perilous and sharp. I'm a little sad that she's not smiling and a little giddy at the new curve of her lips.

Then her eyes will sparkle, and she'll ask me why I'm laughing. I'm not, of course. That would scare the light away. But a smile can laugh, which I know, because hers does. I've never known a smile to invite so casually, with such mercy and lack of judgment. With such friendship. And then I've no choice but to jostle the light something terrible. I feel it like I feel her hands, her skin, her hair; smooth and white and cold. It rolls over our backs as I roll her onto hers, as she rolls me onto mine. It straddles us, and strokes us, licks us. It flickers and glistens, sliding and pulsing. It moves across the night sky till dawn.

Then the sun comes, breaks the gossamer moonlight with its brilliance. No subtlety at all. And she leaves me for the day. But her eyes sparkle with the same moonlit promise. I see myself in those overlarge and perfect visions. She is not beautiful. Not really. But she is. Exquisitely too pale complexion, eyes with the round of raindrops, precisely too long neck, and a face just right for human. I'd never thought of rain as being trusting, but in her eyes I see it. And I see myself. And I wish I could change...myself. Be better, faster, how she sees me. Strong enough to wrestle the night back, drape us both in darkness and moonlight, and fight back the dawn. But I'm not. I can't. So I just say I Love You and wait for twilight.