I never smoothed out any of the pages I stopped on when you fell asleep with my fingers tangled in your hair and your breath hot against my chest as I read you poetry and Harry Potter under that sleeping bag when you broke your ankle on the last day of our camping trip. I still flip to them sometimes, remembering how the words felt on my tongue when I knew you were slipping and I was still hanging onto your warmth like a moth to a dying streetlight. Even if I had all the right words on all the right pages you still would have made the ink run.
