he’s like slipping.
he’s like that 3:41AM slipping, sliding feeling
that comes from being too tired to sleep,
too scared of facing the monsters in your dreams.
he’s the last drag of a cigarette, the haze of the smoke.
he’s the slipping, sliding, falling feeling.
the need to be unconscious,
the fear of revisiting a nightmare.

he’s like, you know, that pit in your chest.
he’s like that 3:42AM cavity, the gap, the lack—
that’s what it is, it’s a lack, it’s an absence.
a missing part of your chest where your breath should be.
he’s all the trying failures, the heaving desperation
to have somethinganythingeverything to fill the space,
the whiskey, the nicotine, the poison.

he’s something like restlessness.
he’s like that 3:43AM tossing and turning,
the half-unconscious fighting for and against sleep.
like the itch of the covers and how many times can you flip this pillow,
how many positions are there for your arms before they start to tingle,
is it easier on your side or on your back,
don’tcloseyoureyesthat’swherethemonstersare.
he’s the itch you can’t scratch.

he’s along the lines of middle-of-the-night phone calls.
he’s like that 3:44AM buzz of your phone on the floor by your bed,
the scroll of his name across the screen.
he’s the whispered plea for a distraction,
the ican’tsleep, the iknowyoucan’teither.
he’s like the tilt in his own voice that results from
fear desperation restlessness. the need for sleep he won’t fulfill.
he’s the it’sokay you’ve never been used to hearing.

he’s like home.
he’s like that 3:45AM sinking into the mattress,
the hushing in your head that comes from feeling
right. he’s like the roof at midnight,
stars in the sky, cigarette between your fingers,
him at your side as an anchor.
he’s something safe, something warm, something—
home. he’s home.