"Good night," she whispered, her voice in my ear, her love in my heart. She was fading fast, sleep taking her by the hand and spreading throughout her body.

"Good night," I said, placing a small, simple kiss on her forehead. She smiled, her eyes closed as she disappeared, the smile remaining while her consciousness departed. I was so lucky. Lucky that this beautiful girl in my bed, in my head, in my heart, was where she was. I was lucky that I was allowed to see her as much as I did. I was lucky I was allowed to hold her as much as I did. I was lucky I was allowed to love her as much as I did.

I pushed a strand of hair off of her face, and leaned in, kissing her gently on her cheekbone. I rubbed her face softly with my fingers, cupping either side with my hands. I ran my thumbs lightly over her eyelids, wondering if her dreams were filled with me, with us. I wondered if she saw my face, saw my love as I saw her every night. Did she see herself in my arms, safe, sound, happy? Did she see herself surrounded by me, never to be alone, to be scared? Did she see me loving her?

I brushed my fingers over her forehead, trying to count all the kisses I had placed there. Sometimes it felt more intimate to kiss her forehead than to kiss her lips, more special, more personal. Behind her forehead was her brain, where she thought of me, where she didn't think of me. Did she think of me? Did she always find other thoughts in her head being pushed out by me? Did she think of me loving her?

I rested my fingers on her lips, the doorway to her heart. I asked myself if every kiss meant as much to her as it did to me, if she felt as overwhelmed with love as I did when we touched lips. I asked myself if when we kissed, she saw into my heart, she saw all of her love. Did she feel me inside her heart? Did she feel filled to the brim with my love, content in my arms? Did she feel me loving her?

I moved my mouth slowly to her ear, whispering softly, faintly, "I love you." She groaned in her sleep, moving slightly. I loved her so much. And yet I never told her, never articulated the three words she might need to hear the most. They were only spoken to gaping, empty, lonely silences. Only whispered to her back as she walked away from me. Only voiced in the stillness of a dark night, a lonesome night, when sleep will not surrender, and she wades through my thoughts. Did she hear when I said it? Did she hear me when I whispered, when I didn't? Did she hear when words fell from my mouth like leaves off of trees, not ready, not wanting to? Did she hear me loving her?

She stirred slightly, turning over, her hair splaying across her breath-taking face. Her lips moved vaguely, forming words, but not voicing them. I leaned into her, air blowing from her mouth onto my cheek, into my ear. "I love you, too," she whispered incoherently and yet irrefutably. She did. She knew, she saw, thought of, felt, and heard me loving her. Loving her. Loving her unconditionally, unquestioningly, undeniably. Always. Loving her.