You’re lying next to me. Tomorrow, you will tell me your dreams. I’ve been staring at the ceiling. I can never sleep when you’re here. The ideas are firing. The pillow is not quiet, only the writing is. I slip out of bed, tip-toe to the other side of the room, and type.
What is it about you? It isn’t direct. I mean, I don’t write the things you say. You’re not a whisper. You’re more like a mood. Things come easier when you’re around. But I know there’s more at play. I just don’t think I’m meant to understand.
I’ve looked through your sketches, listened from the shower to your strumming on the ukelele. I also listen to you, but it’s more like listening to your voice—your words slip my net. I’ve heard you in your native language. You told me it’s Portugese. It’s not.
Sometimes I wonder where you live, what the rest of your life is. You don’t explain your coming and going, you don’t let me in on your plans. I don’t think you have any. I wonder what you get out of this. I barely pay attention to you. You look at my laptop like you’re jealous.
I know that none of this matters. I can’t explain why it works for me. I don’t need to try.