Sleep moves in waves. These days. Like the unpredictability of my Internet connection or the way your breath moves in and out of your chest late into the night. So, I stalk my apartment in the dark like cats. Cold snatches of reprieve like the moments you held me in your arms--or listening to cow sounds--when there exists a kind of meaningful emptiness. It presents itself like a thief. One glimpse here or there. Always elusive and slightly out of reach. Just turning the corner at the end of a dark rain soaked road. Yet unknown definable features. Left to fight sheets looking for the curve of your jaw. The outline of your collar bone. The way you whisper to me, sometimes, in the middle of the night the words held holy. Your finger tips crawling the expanse of my spine. Left nocturnal. To sleep desperate hard hours into the working day-light. To shrug alarm clock rings and work to ride the wave for as long and wherever it takes me.

she sits in the waiting room like the rubbery head of a match. links right leg over left to cinch and curl her foot around the opposing calf. a proffer of protection in the familiar contorted posture. she pictures herself in a light weight cardboard box with a cello window. a large banner across the top of the pane. shouting. one posable human. she smiles into the open neglected book on her lap. something about native americans and protest. a re-read she's supposed to be enjoying like walking home with her eyes closed. instead, she pictures her broken insides. attempts a rendering of the blood and guts and sin. then writes the words:

are you being held hostage?

in big bold letters across the blank page of her spiral and holds it up to the elderly woman sitting in the chair facing her. imagines her lack of response as secret code. for something. she wonders if either one of them will escape.

days on days i sing songs in spite of myself. not as melodic and self aware as the poetry of cullen. nothing that would make the day break fantastic smiles in the life of the heart of love.

i can't flip the page. refuse to contemplate the idea of leaving november. as if standing still at the creation of your life meant something might be different. that i wouldn't ever have to contemplate going to a home where you no longer exist as anything more than a memory in stories we'll tell one another over steaming cups of coffee. or that slowly like months passing far too quickly i'll add other names and dates to yours. that mine could be there any time. haunting my reckless attempts at sleep, these days, like the nameless faces of starving babies in africa and all the women who were raped, murdered, or tortured in any country on any continent in any city from the time i woke up in the morning until then whose stories will never be told and who won't ever feel like their lives ever made a difference. how to move forward in time.