You're laying on my bed in a fetal position. You are laying on your side with your kn?ees up to your neck and your hands between your thighs, trying to find warmth. I watch you as you're eyes begin to flutter until they finally shut. The light in the room flickers, and you can see it through your lids. And as the room becomes light and dark and light and dark, I close my eyes and imagine the days and nights passing by. I take my place next to you, lying on my back, memorizing each crack on the ceiling, imagining they were stars in the sky creating a beautiful constellation that dripped down on us. I look to my side and scan your bare back. I trace the three moles that align your back, making their way down your spine and it's so unfamiliar to me. The scars on your skin and the moles on your back used to remind me of a map or the stars the lye across my ceiling. But now they look as if bugs were crawling into your skin, sickening me, making my tongue numb. The taste of orange juice after toothpaste. Your hair used to be beautiful, golden locks but now they remind me of the wasted spaghetti I didn't bother eating. And as you turn around to face me, I turn around with you as you put an arm around me. You take your thumb and trace my cheek over and over again, inadvertently scraping my skin. And when you kiss my head and silently leave, I begin to question why I miss the silent scrapings. The pain of each cut reminds me of you. I start to love you again.