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On the train back from Long Island, after leaping into Great South Bay from the deck, he fell asleep, arms heavy across his torso, his veins lightly pulsed. Through the window, the sun fell on him and he seemed lit from within, holy. I held the camera to my eye, breathless, and pressed the shutter, prayed the exposure was right. The light from his body reacting with the silver in my film, our only contact. The viola curve of his forearm, without tension, resting on his thigh. I remember the red in his beard in the afternoon sun. I remember the feeling of trespass as I photographed him sleeping, his relaxed jaw and high cheekbones. I wanted him to wake up. I wanted to watch him sleep for hours. I remember how shy I felt around him even though we were friends with a history and had shared ourselves, our jokes, nerdiness, and longings and dreams for the future.
I crashed against the space between us again and again.