I always sleep like I’m dead. The night washes over me, a powerful wave. I’m pulled under and then I’m gone, blotted out until the alarm or the sun wakes me. I hold onto the girl I love as I’m swept away but always in the morning I’m empty handed. Her sleep so fitful, mine like an anchor around my chest, the rope piercing our bed, the floor, taut all the way down to the middle of everything. To the place where I’m not.