All I can remember is him. The warmth of him. The desperation in his voice as he begged me to wake up, and the desperation I felt when I couldn’t open my eyes for him. The feel of his lips against mine. Not erotic, but primal. One body breathing life into another. And then the way he ran the hairbrush through my hair in the bathtub. The way it filled an aching hole in my chest, a desperate need to be cherished. And the way he spoke about his mother.
