I want to know what you’re thinking.

I want to believe I know.

Tonight, I want to believe so many things.

Desperately.

No one watching would ever believe you weren’t born here. Sometimes, I pretend you weren’t. I can remember a time when I towed you around in my red wagon, playgrounds where I pushed you on swings. I can still hear you calling out to me, begging me to push harder so you can go higher, always higher.

You write with your fingers, tracing patterns in water. I write with my fingers, drawing words I could never say in sand. Waves break against the shore easing into my letters, slowly blurring them until they’re impossible to read. I look up when you laugh. You’re almost as dark as me now, more brown then white.

I want us to be the same color so bad.

Wind blown honey drapes heavily over your bare shoulders making you glow gold in the sun’s failing light. Arms spread, you dive into warm water, laughing like it’s the first time.

I could watch you play forever.

Perfect.

* * * * *

“Your Dad…he’s gonna come back.” All the blood’s gone, but your cheek’s still swollen where she hit you. It’s happening more. I want to believe it’s not me.

But, I don’t.

You’re so quiet now, speaking only with lidded eyes and soft hands. When your fingertips brush my nose and stop on the furrowed skin of my brow, I pray for a steady voice. “We could just leave, tonight. We could just go…please.” It doesn’t help, it still breaks. I shake my head, but the tears still come. I could save you from all this. I could.

I promise.

Your hand finds mine. With one wrinkled finger you trace my life line. Little pieces of sand tickle my palm as you move, shifting trapped glass. Tiny diamonds glitter in my hand, matching the ones in your eyes.

They’re silent too, your tears. I can only hear the ocean, the wind. Your fingers entwine, lift my hand to your lips.

That’s my favorite thing, the way your hand fits in mine.

I remember when you were scared to do this. Scared to hold my hand, to walk too close, but you don’t flinch when my arms surround your waist. Instead, you lean into me. Your back to my chest, my nose pressed against your neck. The sun’s setting is so much less important then the tiny, blonde strands tickling my face.