you hung blankets over your windows to keep out the light, and the air inside your bedroom was timeless.

in the morning you'd let me sleep, and somehow i didn't mind it. if you weren't playing in the living room, you sat at the computer with your headphones on, every few minutes singing to the music without realizing it. it was a beautiful sound, even when i couldn't hear the song. when i woke up you brought me a bowl of raisin bran and i'd eat it sitting cross-legged on the top bunk, like a child.

at night i'd curl myself into the uncomfortable dining chair in the corner and lean my head against the rickety post, listening to you sing with tears dropping from my eyes. safe inside your pullover until you asked for it back. safe inside the saltwater that you never noticed on my cheeks.

the mornings were never separate from the nights, the gray daylight skies never detached from the streaked-rain blackness. we'd go out driving and it was always rainy but never light or dark. it was us, but not daytime. it was you and me, but not the night.