100

The lights are down so low the room might as well be lit by a fireplace, and I can smell the melting snow through the open window. There's no wind on this saturday night, nothing to make the stars move faster.

And you've raised your long black skirt up to your knee, to pull your spike heel boots off, you drop them on the floor with the sound of a car door closing in the desert, keeping us safe from the sand and the falling stars. I love watching you roll your black stocking past your knee, love seeing you cross your bare legs on the bed spread.

And your hair still glitters with the night dew, and you untie the black ribbon from your throat. And the fog is rolling in the window, and your eyes are so wide in the dark.

And now you're sleeping, my flannel shirt reaching almost to your knees. And that secret smile is still on your lips, I wonder what you're dreaming. In a minute I'll turn this machine off and lie down with you, but first I had to write this. According to the counter, this is my 100th blog entry, and I wanted it to be about something really special.