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...