After lying on the futon and reading Pablo Neruda's love poems, we went to the natural history museum and studied the amber, looking for a fly that once rubbed its legs against twigs while the golden resin wrapped itself around the insect in a warm embrace, so gentle and tender that the fly forgot that it could no longer breathe, and I remembered sitting on the bed when you found the tie for my hair and knelt behind me with your fingers brushing the back of my neck as you pulled my hair up for me, or while we slept together, and those same fingers reached for mine and wove themselves through the space of my hand. As we moved on to the carved jade, those tiny moments of delicacy lay before me, and the green rock sat under dimmed lights, with points thinned into slivers like the most fragile shards of glass, so easily broken as they pierce the skin and draw our blood.