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.