You got a sleep mask because of my late night reading habit.
A nice one. 
Padded and raised along the edges, like a little room for your eyes.
Still, you saw light, even in all that dark.
I had one of those clip-on lamps fixed to the headboard and pulled low over my shoulder.
Turned on my side, away from you.
“It’s pretty dark in here,” I said.
“I know, but with your light, I know it's crazy, but it still bothers me.”
“It is crazy. There’s no way you see it.”
“Listen,” you said, “as someone who falls asleep under any condition, you’re not allowed to call it crazy.”
“You just called it crazy.”
“But you are allowed to shut the fuck up and give me a kiss goodnight.”
I chuckled, kissed you, turned back and read a page.
Read another.
“Do me a favor?” you said.
“K.”
“Just tell me it's off.”
I leaned over, clicked it off.
Clicked it back on.
But I knew that wouldn’t work.
You were listening, paying attention despite yourself.
So, click click click click.
On/off on/off on/off on/off on/off.
Random patterns, rhythms, free jazz, Morse codes telling you to go to fucking sleep.
On.
“It’s off.”
I read a page. 
You were quiet, your breathing steady.
I read another page 
And another.
Then, from the confines of darkness, you whispered, “You're such a fucking liar.”

*

I was only half drunk on the porch while watching the sunset.
You came out, snuck up over my shoulder and stomped.
“BOO!”
But I didn’t flinch.
And that wasn’t fair to you.

*

I want to print out our texts.
Bind them in hardcover.
Leave it on the coffee table.
And to anyone who picks it up
I’ll ask,
“What do you know about that?”

*

I’ve been sneaking cigarettes again.
You’ve smelled it.
I’ve noticed your quick glances,
and appreciate how you never mentioned it.
I really do.
Because cigarettes are one thing, 
but my baby won’t have me smelling of shame.