It takes time to learn to sleep with another person.

I have things to say, but everything looks sort of blah when I start writing.  My back hurts.  I didn't get much sleep.  I don't feel bereft now, but I know the exhaustion is there, waiting, for the right moment to hit.

Some things are better than last time, some things are worse.

Every time I do this, I think, maybe this could be real.  Maybe this time.

I had the dream again.  This time, I was walking through Chicago, except it was also Rome, and it was also a city I've dreamt before, whose streets I've walked before.  And somewhere on those streets, I lost Mike, or he lost me, because I wasn't watching for him.  I hadn't known he existed until he called, feeling abandoned and unloved and, yes, disappointed.  They are always disappointed.

Mike hasn't been in that dream in a long time.

Every time I do this, I think, maybe this could be real.  Maybe this time.

This time I also thought, I want this to be real.