Every night when I turn over, before I fall asleep, I wait for you to ask why. I wait for you to ask why so that I can explain. I can explain that if I turn over I can't see you. If I turn over and I wake up in the night, which is seem to do every night I stay here, at least two or three times, then all I see in the moonlight is the attic door, the vague outline of a bedside table, the soft pulsing glow of a charging cellphone. Because if I can't see you then I can convince myself I won't feel the need to touch you. Because if I don't touch you, I don't have to deal with the way it feels when you pull away. So I turn over every night before I go to sleep and wait for you to ask. But you never do.