I let her mouth touch the creamed silver before mine. It was almost easy, like taking the hand of someone helping you to your feet.

It could be her wide multi-colored eyes or the clean lines under her fingernails, or the fact that I wasn’t entirely whole before her. It could be the soft melody of her voice, or the childish pleasantry of her contagious laugh. Or maybe it’s because I knew I’d always needed her, like forests need the dirt and rain to grow.

I remember that she took my hand. She took my hand, after years of not speaking; after all the terrible things I had done. I was crying, and she took my hand. She thanked me for my company. She shed tears for me. And I knew things would be different.

I drove home and curled up in the backseat of my car: I listened to piano solos from unknown artists in a nearby house and cried until my lungs creaked. I only knew that I would do anything to save her…

That’d she do anything to save me.