It's dark. The sun has long disappeared
and no new words will be spoken. I lay
beside  you, we  run  through  different
ways  to say the same things.  We  both
know sleep would be more productive,
but  these  nights   are  so  few  and  far between that I'll tell you a story for the
eleventh time, or read you a poem that
you've  read  before, talking just  to  fill
the  silence.  Even   when   you  beg  for
sleep,  I'm  slow  to  concede.  The  next
morning  is most often awful because  I
have  somewhere  to be, and so do  you,
which means  goodbyes  all around and three  weeks or more will pass  between
us  speaking  face   to   face,  which  isn't impossible  but  still  isn't  easy,  and I'm
sorry for keeping you awake. But I don't
think   you   totally   hate   my   senseless
eternal   whispers,  because  they   creep
through   the  silence   that  comes   with
distance. I just want you to know that I'll
run   out  of  time    before  I  run  out   of
words.  "Goodnight,"  I'll whisper,  before
feeling you roll your eyes in the darkness.
And  then  I'll  remember  a  story  I  don't
think I've told you...