Love

No one had fallen asleep on him before. He sat on the couch awake, listening to Cat Power sing about how "when we were teenagers, we wanted to be the sky." Her head was on his chest. His arm was sore, but he didn't want to wake her. He let it hurt, for every time he saw her breathe, her lips closed, her chest rise, the pain subsided. He sat as still as his love for her, afraid to wrest it from its place. The album ended, and she continued to sleep. The finished, spinning record sounded like her breaths. He stared into the dark room, thinking he'd never need to care for anything else.