Insomniac Files

by essayan hart

Sometimes at night, in my ritual refusal to sleep, I think about you.  My houseguests, both stricken with the ailment that has had me down in bed for days, are breathing somewhat labored on their air mattress. I am sitting in bed, crosslegged, half staring at my houseplant, half towards the closed blinds, as if I can bore through to the window behind.

I am typing on my phone.

You seem to fit in my life. My sleeping friends could testify that I do not share my life easily, if they knew about this blog, or knew that I was still awake. Despite the cold medicine, the illness, im awake. As per usual.

Yesterday I slept until two pm. It was a miracle. I left the house once today, to buy toilet paper, and have one entirely inappropriate cigarette. You  texted once or twice, to make plans, to check in.

We are not having sex. We make out like teenagers, take our time like christians. This is unfamiliar. I know your scent now like a little wild bobcat stalking prey. You are my new favorite thing. Shiny, and most likely sharp, troublesome.

We make music together like two small doves, lifting our dark secrets to the moon. Shyly, we dive into the mysteries together. We talk about getting dirty, about camping.

I can imagine us in one home. This is unfamiliar. Unwelcome. We both need space, endless space. I imagine extra rooms.

“Cause its not hard too fall, but I don’t want to scare her….” d.rice

So for now, secrets. The labored breathing of my friends, and the quiet thought of your body, here with mine. Eventually.