I can tell you hardly sleep at night,
by the blank stares at computer screens
and the way you twiddle your thumbs
and twist the holder-of-hair that once was on your wrist
and I remember spilling my guts out in your passenger seat
and the way you cleaned them up so neatly
and you never once gagged or got mad
that I could've gotten blood on the floorboard
and I remember the time we drove in circles to get the best views of the sunrise and forgetting our words and to breathe
and I remember the time you told me that you weren't an open book,

but you did say something that gave me the courage
to stroke your spine,
and your feather tattoo,
in hopes of being able to read you.

"If you ask me the right questions, I'll tell you anything."


"Why don't you sleep?"
"Just not tired."
"What made you fall asleep as a child?"
"Is it the night terrors that keep you awake?"

And with those words, I was able to skim the first few pages.

Maybe one day, my presence alone could comfort you immediately,
the way your mother's never could,
the way Marie did so effortlessly

of course, I'll never be your dream catcher like she
but I'll look up at the stars with you and tell you what constellations I see and hope that my voice is louder than the memory of her absence and that my smile is a little less haunting of a view
than your bedroom ceiling