We are lying together, my nose barely touching yours, our toes brushing underneath the blankets. You've said before that when we lie this way it is like we are each other's beginning and end, and I never thought I believed in things like that. Before you, my hair was dry and fragile from too much dye. Before you, my nails were bitten down to nubs. Before you, I wore combat boots and stomped down the street like a human earthquake. Before you.

You blink awake and I see the green eyes I've searched so many times, mashed into one beautiful olive orb in front of me. "Good morning," you say, and my heart beats a little faster.

I don't know what it was you saw in me before we really even met. You've written countless songs about the scrunch of my nose when I smile, the tiny dew drops that form on my eyelashes if I've been out in the rain, the freckles on my right hipbone that nearly make the shape of a star, but that doesn't explain what made you approach me first. I didn't smile much then. We weren't ever close enough for you to see anything about my eyes aside from the smudged purple eyeliner rimming them. I wore short skirts, but honestly, it doesn't take much to cover a hipbone.

I was sitting in a cafe with my face jammed in a book of Sylvia Plath's poetry, my coffee--no milk, no cream--leaving an ugly brown ring on my notebook that was supposed to be full of the inspiration I found riding the bus or people-watching. Needless to say, there wasn't much.

You'd refer to it as love at first sight later, which was silly because we did have the same English class and also because, as I said before, I didn't believe in things like that back then. Whatever it was, you came over, pointed out the coffee seeping through my papers, smiled, and had me swooning. Well, the kiss that happened later helped. You didn't try to cop a feel and even I must admit that my rack is pretty decent. But it most definately started with the smile.

"I love you," you tell me now, our hands reaching like newborn children towards their mothers, our fingers linking together. My lips curve upwards but I don't even bother to form the words. After two years, my heart is a well-rehearsed script to you.

Carefully, I untangle my fingers from yours and touch the pulse point of your neck. You are so alive, I think. Your lips meet mine and it's confirmed. I could spend the rest of my life with you, and you would give me everything I could ever want without me even having to ask for it.

It doesn't take long once my hands are wrapped around your neck. You almost smile at first, thinking this must be some kind of joke, waiting for me to pull away and deliver the punchline, but I grip with all of my might. Your face falls when you realize that I'm not joking, and you go from stunned to crushed within seconds. Your eyes, so wide and so green, for a moment the most wonderful shade I have ever seen. You never fight me, even though your body jerks under mine. You never raise your hands to my wrists and try to stop me. You just keep staring, that amazed, hurt look, until your lungs give up and your eyes glaze over.

"You have to understand," I whisper when I'm sure that you're dead. "I thought I knew who I was before you. I didn't believe in love at first sight. And you made me learn new things every day. You saw too much inside me. You have to understand. No one really wants a person who knows them better than they know themselves."

By the time I leave your apartment the sun is shining brightly, all the morning pink and grey wiped away. A clean slate. My hair falls brown and luxorious down my back and I think about dying it lime, getting a moehawk. Who's to say it was the fact that I stopped coloring my hair that made it so silky? It could have just been because we were having all that sex. They say that the fluids are good for your hair.

I bite at my filed-to-perfection nails and drag my combat boots against the cement, getting a peice of gum stuck to the bottom of one. I left the pink sandals in your room. It's like my feet have already forgotten how they danced down the street for you.

Tonight, I'm going home to my notebook. I'm going to drink black coffee instead of herbal tea. I'm going to fill the pages with my words until they're overflowing. I'm going to live alone and have fifty eight cats and be the only person who knows who I am.

And I'm going to be just fine with that.