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in the time between sleeping and waking, they talk. she sends him many small messages. the text is white on the small black screen. she sends photographs. he is online. they are connected. they talk. their voices are warm as breath. they touch with their candle eyes. they see with their bloodshot hands.


he wonders if this time is more real than the time of being awake. it is her voice in his ear. it is the heat where their skin joins. it is each hair of her head separate and distinct, its own small scent growing into his awareness. if he doesn't try, he can slip into this time and linger there. it is a time without ticks or taps. it is a time without befores or afters. he wonders if she will let him.

he tries not to try.


when he sleeps, he dreams of them. he dreams knowing that he is dreaming. in his dreams he is awake. sometimes he dreams he watches her sleep and wonders what she dreams. in his dreams he asks her sleeping form many questions and he tells her many secrets. he smiles and reaches out a hand to touch her. in his hands she is a fish, silver and quick like light.


he remembers that in the old words, quick means alive. the quick and the dead. cut to the quick. he feels a quickening. he is breathing deep, and quick.


when he is awake he dreams of the time between sleeping and waking. he thinks of sleeping and dreaming.


he is stretched. he is transparent with the stretching. he is running. he is running and not stopping. he knows where he is running. he knows why he runs. he knows who he is... he is gulping hot desert breaths. he is astonished by the length of days.


he does not exhale.