I would play out this story on the nights when she was asleep, and I, too restless and dreamy would imagine our love reduced to silence in a white room.
A fire, perhaps, or a car crash.
A switch labelled on and off.
A door left ajar.
There I would turn my cheek to her mouth to make sure that she was breathing.
Willing the heat of her breath to touch my skin and make everything ok.
In the space between the bed and the floor I would lift my feet to the rhythm of her chest as it lifted in the shadows.
Rise and fall. And every fall could have been her last.
Alive and then dead,
Dying all the time.
When the morning came and I’d feel her fingers push their way through mine, see the light creeping in, the story would end.
It was as if by watching her, I thought I was saving her.
I saved her every night for three years, until the girl I was saving didn’t want to be saved anymore.