Knit Cap

  I remember he wore a beige knit cap that night, that the air felt like a layer of glass brittle enough to break with my fingers. Sitting on the couch, we were still, unsure of what to talk about--if we should talk at all. His palms were clammy and grey against mine. I was careful to rest my head lightly on his chest, for fear I might suppress his already shallow breaths. I remember sometime the morning came. He made a remark about the color of the sky through chapped, purple lips. I can't remember the voice at all, or even the words. But his fingers went white around my dozing wrist and tear-salt churned at the top of my throat.