The sun has dropped below the horizon.

The sky is filled with hues of pink and blue.

She walks inside leaving the heat of the day behind.

She undresses in the quiet shadows of her room.

The curtains billow, slowly exhaling, inhaling.

I run her bath.

She slips into the warm water.

It smells of lemon and sage.

Every muscle loosens.

She gently pats herself dry.

Her white nightgown is covered in tiny yellow daisies.

I run a brush through her silky hair.

The light catches shades of gold and bronze.

I rub lotion on her sun kissed arms.

They are dotted with freckles and delicate bleached hairs.

I place a vase of fresh lavender beside her bed.

A gentle breeze carries the scent throughout the room.

I pull back the crisp cotton sheets.

She delights in the invitation.

I read her a story.

A story of love and pain, joy and sadness.

She knows this story well.

I turn out the light.

Her gaze moves to the window.

Fireflies are dancing in the dark.

She smiles and closes her eyes.

I am her. She is me.