We wake up bathed in light. The window next to the bed projects sunbeams onto our faces making the entire room a flood of pure gold. It happens suddenly. Sometimes, in the earliest morning hours, the sun hits our glass lamps in such a way that tiny pieces of light become scattered across Rosalita's neck and shoulders. I cannot help but kiss every single speck. They look like tiny constellations of stars; a galaxy of light that quietly envelopes her skin.