The feeling before everyone dozes off at a sleepover. No lights left on. Your eyes are drowsy.

And it feels like the perfect time, to say how you really feel. To say what's too hard, when you're looking eye to eye. The pressure of fluorescent lights, and body language, dissolve into a whisper, only moonlight cutting through.

Like being a child and painting with your hands. Letting the colours mix, and your skin get stained. Making something that could be ugly, but felt good to do.

Like laying in the grass, on an August afternoon, writing poems in our journals, drawing initials in a heart. Coming home, exhausted from the heat. Grass stains on my knees. Where the sun on my shoulders was the only weight that day.

With you, I forget, who I am meant to be. Pushed, with two hands, into who I really am. I go rolling down the hill, winded, but with glee.

Held. In the hands of two artists. How rough the skin, from making (and living), from falling on the pavement, hands first. Gravel still buried in the supple flesh of your palms. But the scratch of your callouses, against my softest insides, feels like... a tickle. I can't help but smile. In hands all too smooth, with too lose a grip, I'd surely slip from their fingers, never to be understood. In a squeeze that's so tight, it's harder to breathe, I'm reminded I'm alive. And that you are too. And your hugs that turn into pushes, into giggles, into catching my breath. Feel like... relief.

You two are right handed, and I left, so we can write, at the same time, with our pinkies interlocked. Maybe if my voice, is more often heard, by your telephone line, than my four empty walls, the syllables I utter won't feel so grave, like they're filled with only air, or often sand–– exaggerated echoes, lone attempts at making sense. No, living in your voicemail, wrapped–– poorly with a bow— they resemble little prayers. Or confessions. For us to forget, or just to know.

To laugh at, or to grow.

For us to tear into little pieces, we will toss (like mad people) to the birds in our minds— feasting for inspiration.

A routine we have made, of waking and sharing, what we dreamt of last night. Searching for our next good idea, like a game of hide and seek. Where might it be waiting? Hoping to be found...

How playful it has become. Musing feels like daydreaming again.

I record you on my very first video camera. A return to origin. As though to capture you like home. To see you through the eyes of my younger self, knowing she would never believe I know you.

I imagine us, as children, all laying head to head.

And your cries, and your laughs, sound just the same.