i am a card-carrying member of the tea-stained poets club. we sit and stare out the cafe window, our chins rested in our palms and an elbow propped on a notebook. we smoke cigarettes and nothing ever gets written.

each night is a blur of not being able to lay down and sleep. the blur of loving bodies being pushed and pulled along a shore.

i love my apartment. i can sit back and admire it for hours. two large rooms with high cielings and wood floors, a mini kitchen, a smaller room which leads to a long bathroom. i've never really filled it up with character and shelves and furniture, because i am always feeling like i'm on the verge of moving someplace else. i can't remember the last time i've felt settled in. i never have. when i was a child we moved often. rents and leases.

when melissa was considering moving here, i started imagining having a house and a yard and a set of matching bicycles. a black barbeque orb and a sewing room. kids with skinned knees. it's a difficult picture for my mind to paint, and all seems kind of cartoony. but it's nice just the same.

sound asleep. i'm frustrated with the empty air in my mind. suspense is breaking me. wide awake.

sound asleep. my shadow is casting shadows.