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I'm getting good at it finally, after almost a year. And you're in bed with your long-suffering wife (too bad sainthood's not so fun once you marry it, huh?), or maybe up already as the hour approaches four, long-since acclimated to greatest movies the insomnia that's plagued you since a year before greatest movies your mother's death. Are you thinking of me? My skin is so greatest movies unmarred now (other than the cuts on my arms, my own doing) that you wouldn't even recognize me. And you, have you carried our habits on to some other woman who you have to hear scream to get your fix? Or maybe all I taught you was the value family life: safe and sane, as colorless as Ann Arbor, as devoid of blood, of pain, of gray? That we could intertwine with and come for others after the nights my blood flowed into your mouth is proof of everything I do not want to believe.
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