He reads to me.  His breath turned to words on my neck.  Warm.  Like milk.  And the soft light is a small world.  Just for us.  The words are stolen.  From a book I wouldn’t read.  But I don’t care what they mean.  The syllables a string of broken beads.  Bright.  Filled with the warm rumble of breath and syncopation.  Pebbles on a path.  And I sink, eyes heavy, with a slow pleasure.  Sink into a world.  Where nothing matters but the sound of his voice.  Against my neck.  This gift he gives me.  Reading me to sleep like a child.  The curve of a smile softening.  The wisp of hair he moves from my cheek.  A gift given with such open hands.  That all I can do is surrender. And whisper wordlessly, in the dark of sleep, “thank you.”