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The tiles of the sky slide slowly behind my window—a field, deserted, the moon, for a brief moment. This is the view I see while we talk, my face pressed against a pillow, I speak slowly. My evening overlaps your morning: here, you say sweet dreams, I say have a nice day.
Each gap in words: I wonder if after, the things you say will pace wearily across my thoughts, if they will step into my prayers and jiggle loose all of the things we leave in the backs of our closets: school uniforms, love letters, forgotten hats and half-eaten candy bars in coat pockets.
Back to our conversation: you ask about my lover, hesitantly. I describe the moon, the field, the empty room where I sleep. I imagine you brokenhearted, Emily lying unmoving over your thoughts. I wish these conversations could lift the gray of this unpain, this notsuffering that fogs the fields and covers the moon. You invoke God when the conversation stalls—I know he’ll reward me for this sacrifice. As the sky slides upward away from my window I uncurl my fingers from our exchange: neither of us has what the other needs, but we’re good enough at keeping each other company to call it friendship.