We woke up the next morning as Jack and Sally. Our identities were lost, our new ones taken. We lived in our own town. Blood tears streamed from our eyes burying deep through skin and into magnificent, radiant bone. Tear stained photos of older day littered the sheets, flowing down to the floor. Our breathing kept them up. His great arms prevented my own body from falling off the rigid mountain we rarely left. His pretty hands supported me. The eyes of a thousand dreams were my source of relief, and sometimes the sleep I received. He called me fragile, perfect. I was tiny, he said with the best of intentions. He said I used to pure, but then he came. Then his clear, straight voice laughed like no other can. Sometimes great wonderment was put upon me. Great wonderment of how his thin body held me so close. So close I was thin. I was almost thin like him but he was still Junkie Thin. His body was almost as pretty as his personality. I saw his bones through tight transparent skin. He saw my years of lies through my conscious stretched almost to the breaking the point. We shared embarrassment over these sensitive subjects. One night we watched rain. We sat on picnic table on the park let our skin get soaked through. The rain was pretty. It was beautiful. The sweet taste stung our eyes and pleased our mouths. The pretty rain was dry and smelled like a savory summer day. I wanted to bottle the evening like a snow globe. Whenever the sun broke out, I'd shake that night and feel his love like rain and the rain like his voice. His peppermint and cologne smell wrapped around me as we circled back to our mountain pinnacle. I tried to do the same to him with solace of songs.