In your bedroom late at night, it is dark, the only light spills in from the moon through the curtains covering your window, behind your bed. When i look strait at you my eyes blur out your face into a blank slate of darkness. To the left and right in contrast, the room is lit in pale twilight; a sharpness in shades of gray. So I'm using my peripherals to analyze your face as we whisper secret future plots involving unborn infant, Max. I'm always watching where you're looking without looking directly at you. I am focused on the space, now, between your shoulder and the bedpost, three inches above the hair resting upon your cheak or nose. I can see you're getting tired, not lifting your head to speak even when your excitement speeds your voice and rubs your feet. I can tell i have bad breathe by the way you blink your eyes and i can tell you could care less by the way you kiss me back. I can still see your face in the space where the chandeleer is and i can see you smiling in the corners of my bedroom. We still speak in hushed voices so our room mates wont listen to our super secret missions to teach Max the alphabet backwards.