i slept on the side by the window. i never told you, but i could never quite fall asleep with the light filtering through the blinds. i should really get some blackout curtains, you said. i didn’t mind because you would always wake up in the middle of the night and ask if we could talk. you shared your dreams with me in sleepy whispers, committing them to my memory. what does it mean? you would ask. and back and forth, we’d make up stories and share memories. we would reach deep into the recesses of our minds and try to connect the dots. sometimes the conversations were silly. sometimes they were painful. fingers in my hair, you always drifted off first. by morning, you didn’t remember.

i sleep better now, but i still wake up often. sometimes alone, sometimes not. but it’s always me who has the dreams. hey, i call softly into the dark. but he isn’t as tortured as you were. he breathes evenly. he’s content.

somehow, this makes me miss you more than ever.