Last Fall you found a leaf half-singed by the bonfire in my backyard and brought it to me, fingers curled around your palm softly-like the way you take my hand, with a care that I think belongs to me, because you're not that careful with anyone else. That's how I knew the leaf was mine even before you put your hand out, letting your fingers open like petals. I put the rusty orange-brown leaf in a heavy book I borrowed from my father's study and left it there and almost forgot about it. But last night I was flicking back and forwards through the book using my thumbs-not reading, just letting the pages pass by, trying to feel what it's like to have all those words inside-and it fell out. Your leaf, twirling onto my bedroom floor.

Now it's thinner than the paper in the book where it was hiding, and all the little crinkles where it once burned have flattened out. But when I look at it close-pulling it up so the light from my window comes through the back of it-I can see all the veins, still there.

It's gotten smaller but it's still the same leaf it was before. It felt so fragile in my hands that I couldn't help but think of you and before the throb in my throat could pull downwards and turn into tears I put the leaf carefully on my desk and found a photo frame and locked it snug behind the glass so it could be safe.

I've put the leaf beside my bed. I look at it when you're asleep and I'm listening for if you're going to get up and go to the bathroom. Some nights you don't, and on those nights I think the leaf looks warmer in the little pieces of light that come through my bedroom window.

That's just my imagination, isn't it? Your leaf doesn't change depending on the light that reaches it, because it's already been injured by whatever burnt it long ago.

Next to me in bed, I can feel you curling closer to my body and without thinking mine moves to meet you, so my back is lining up with your front. I know your asleep-moving and I know your awake-moving and I know the difference between them, too. So I know from your hands at the small of my back that you're awake, because when you're asleep and you move closer they drift up and down and end up in unthinking places on my body. But when you're awake they don't go far, just end up sitting in between our bodies, and you get really close, so there's not any space between us and your face is buried at my shoulder blades and your knees are tucked above my knees-just above, because you're littler than I am-and your feet point like a ballerina's so that your toes can rest flat against my calves.

Sometimes, when you move closer, I can feel your heartbeat, even though your chest isn't pressed flat against my back, because your heart is beating so hard it's like a song running over your body and off your skin. When that happens I know what you want to do, and since I will always want you too, I turn over and kiss you gently, so you know you can kiss me back.

Other times, lately, when you move closer, I can still feel your heartbeat racing along your body, but it's got a different pitch or tune, and it doesn't make the same question. When that happens I think maybe you're scared, not that you want me to kiss you and touch you. So I reach around and undo your laced hands from the small of my back and pull the right one around to my stomach, where I keep it safe in between mine. Sometimes I thumb your palm or squeeze it gently, slower than a heartbeat, in a lullaby rhythm, and most times-most, except when your heartbeat is so loud I'm afraid it'll never slow down again-I can feel the sound of you being scared fall away.

I love your wanting-movements and I don't like your scared ones, but I love that I can make some of your fear go away. I wish I knew how to take all of it. But it's yours, Santana, and only you can get rid of it, I think. I hate watching but if I do anything other than what I am doing, you might catch a breeze, and you'll be like my soft leaf drifting away in the wind. The best I can do is hold you in my hands and wait for you.