His lips soften into a smile that cracks apart my spine. He repeats my name like the word amuses him. Entertains him. Delights him.

In seventeen years no one has said my name like that

All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch another human being not just with my hands but with my heart.

Why are you touching me?"

"Because I can.

I'm oxygen and he's dying to breathe.

I'm wearing dead cotton on my limbs and a blush of roses on my face.

I’m not sure. But there’s something about the darkness, the stillness of this hour, I think, that creates a language of its own. There’s a strange kind of freedom in the dark; a terrifying vulnerability we allow ourselves at exactly the wrong moment, tricked by the darkness into thinking it will keep our secrets. We forget that the blackness is not a blanket; we forget that the sun will soon rise. But in the moment, at least, we feel brave enough to say things we’d never say in the light.