( He hums, a melody unfamiliar, unweighted. Is there a space he steps toward, a self subsumed in circumstance and measuring beyond the known span of breath between them?

Always, yes. Sometimes, no.

A shift, and lips brush a cheekbone, affection wanting avenues he enthuses to explore without extra eyes watching, waiting. )

Nowhere. Everywhere. There are always parts of ourselves demanded, and sleep flees first for me.

( Sleep for him, for the edges that catch light and glint harshly when he turns too quick, too cutting. When the wishes of the dead are louder than the calls of the living. )

The dead drive me from dreaming. Will you sleep, whatever it takes?