My nights are filled with nothing. No regrets, no mistakes, no happiness, or nostalgia, they are simply void. There are no sheep on my ceiling, so instead I count the boys I have passed time with. I meditate on their finger prints engraved in my mind- as if any of them had ever actually touched it. I follow their individual swirls to centres, to lips, and my own fingers comforting them, easing them, helping them forget. This is to the boys who I can remember, who I can separate from gropes and short dances. The boys who met my mouth with their eyes closed. I wonder if they think about the times? The encounters? Do they fluff our moments into their pillows, make room for our memories in their beds at night? Do they swallow instances like painkillers or stomp them out like cigarette butts? Do they even remember? Kissing me in the dark, squeezing their lust into my body in the morning frost? Rested heads against shoulders and wrapped arms around necks and waists? Does he remember my lips crashing against his after pulling off my shirt? Does he remember sifting through my chest like he was searching for my heart? Does he remember car headlights, streetlights, houselights, my lights- my eyes. Does he remember breaking me, remember filling my gaps, remember numbing me with his needle fingers, and does he remember warming me to another life? Do they think, do they realize their words and their touches were the air in my balloon? But there are a lot of hims, just as I'm sure there is a million mes but do they recall, do they think about me? To the boys I have lent myself to, thank you. When insomnia kisses me I know it is empty, I know I am empty, and we are just helping each other survive another nothing night.