You fell asleep on my shoulder at the party last night. You, in your Donna Karan suit, threads smooth and gleaming under my sweeping fingers.
Us, together, nuzzled deep into the corner of a red brocade couch of aircraft-carrier proportions, the muffled clinking and carryings-on of a party in full swing curling around us.
Moonlight on beaded curtains. Brindle cat pressed against my neck, midway between breath and purr.
Your hair, ink-dark, mussed against my cheek, still smelling subtly of fire-pit smoke...and it stokes the happiness in me, as when your hair smells smoky it means we've had a good day. Beach bonfires and forest cookouts and cabin hearths and playing with matches on the porch.
I watch your face - a perfect Portugese cheekbone turned towards the low light coming off the foyer, the skin of your chest peeking out from your black silk collar. I've watched this face for so long - years, I've spent, memorizing its tiniest creases. And yet it's new, here, moving with your sleeping breath.
I remember recalling that awful dream, still an open scar just under my conscious thought - that you need your medicine, and I can't get it, and you're gone when I return. That I pulled you closer when I thought of it, and almost woke you.
You're a gift. I've never forgotten that; never will.