It was black, inside and outside of my eyelids, and the ink in the air shielded us from ourselves. I could feel the tiny hairs on your shoulder blade under my lips. I could feel them raising when I exhaled, slowly and barely, not enough to wake you up but not enough to put you to sleep. I could feel your heart pumping when I traced your ribs with my thumb. I could feel you curl and release like an eggshell under my hands. I was ready for you to roll over in the darkness and face me, but when you did, I could hardly bear the light that your face brought with it.

And yet.

Your timid eyelashes retained some of the night’s velvetness. I began to draw briny lungfuls of saltwater as my knees shook, and I was taken under. Drowning in whatever sea you had created. Dead to yesterday. Waking this morning only to find an ocean surrounding me. No shore, no ship.

So I learned to swim.

(And that, because I did not tell you then, was why I could not sleep last night.)