Dear Beth,

I'm not one to sit around remembering things, because life is so exciting for me.  I don't think back on things very much, because none of it really goes anywhere.  But lately I've been thinking of when I came home.

I've never spent a night like that with anyone else.  

First, Liz, let me say I've no idea from whence the moonlight came, but it split the dark of our room into two sections like a fable - half for the dark and half for the light.  Before you ever said anything to me, I knew I could turn you under me, and into the light, and over me and back into the dark.  Would you be frightened or disgusted to say I knew we were too young to do all we did together?  No, rather because you were my sister, I knew you would not be.

Yes, there are spaces through me which are long and clean, for dancing.  There is no space inside me through which I couldn't dance, and the places which connect them are dim crawlspaces where you shimmy yourself to watch.  

Is this what it's like when someone's voice changes?  

That room vanished after that night and we never said.  Do you remember it?  It was black, like what you mentioned in your letter to me.  I loved it, by the way.  

I think about when you showed me your pussy all the time.  Sometimes I look in the mirror when I touch my cock and try to meet my own eyes like you met mine that night.  Do you remember we didn't talk?  That's what I liked the best, that we didn't talk.  You moved the blanket, and put your legs up, and you didn't say anything but "fuck," really sweetly, under all the moaning.  That room was big and clean, I remember.  It was in my house in LA, and you were on the couch.  

After that, I took you to the black room.  I even made it again in the Bronx, do you remember?  Maybe you don't, but you came to see me, then, too.  I touched your hair under the single false moonlight, and it looked shimmery, like there was something wrong with my eyes.

We got so young, but I was still stronger than you, and you let me lift you up and I came really fast but you didn't laugh or anything.  I don't even think I got inside you before I came, because there was this echoing feeling of loneliness that only God was inside, and the room was the same place.

Sometimes, when I think about it, your hair is red, and sometimes, it's black again.  I like it red more.  I wish I could cum in your hair, and let the curls of it wrap around my cock gently, because when we do fit together, its in strange ways like that which no one would understand or see.  I want to tell someone that we're twins because your curls are the same circumference of my hard cock.

Inside the black room, there's no walls, but they can feel close or far away at the same time.  It's what happens to me when I'm in a spotlight.  Did it feel like that to you, Buffy?  Didn't we learn everything about angels that night?

Things floated by in the glare and the shadows like our first bikes and the fish tank that we broke when we were playing explorers and how we never had money for anything because I was supposed to save us all, like in Fancy, by dancing well enough.  But there was more, too.  There was the headband I broke playing with your karaoke machine with Drama, but I didn't know it was him at the time.  I thought it was Jeff.  And there was the first time we

No, I'm wrong.  I was going to say I could feel the first time I got hard in the shower with you, but that's where we were.  It happened, that same night, didn't it?

I thought for awhile that it must've been Tracy's womb, the black room, but then she let me touch it and it was red and wet and hot, so it has to be somewhere we don't see the rest of the world when the lights are on.  I know it's where music comes from.

The more I fucked you, the more I could see spilling out of us and dancing off into the darkness.  I didn't want it to stop, but we grew up and got tired and the sun came up.  I knew I was an angel.  I knew you were, too.  I didn't know what the word for it was, but I did.