Minnepolis, MN (music; the bens)

Four days until I leave.
I squint in attempts to make out constellations as each individual star blurs together with the next, leaving a smear of iridescent light across the ceiling. Mythologies unfold themselves in astrological bedtime stories. Sleepless, I listen intently. There’s a flicker in the faint green hue on my left.
It’s one-fifteen.
I roll to my side tucking my knees closer to my chest, surveying the little things I’ve grown accustom to. Carabineers and climbing ropes laid to rest in the corner. Glasses tucked into their case. My jeans, cuffed with street salt and chain grease intertwining with his on the floor. He rolls over. His arm wraps around my waste and draws me closer to him, his deep even breaths a metronome, calling for me to succumb to sleep’s rhythm. These are the photos I'm taking with me.
It’s two-thirty.

Three days until I leave town.
With a guest in town, I retreat to the couch. It has become more comfortably recognizable to me than the air mattress.
It's ten-thirty.
Particles of dust sift downwards in the light through the slanted blinds on my right, the snow bright against the window. The light switch is roughly seven feet away but my legs are too worn to stand and flick it on.
It's two-thirty.
My legs may have admitted defeat, but my mind has not. Despite my subliminal messages, the switch has not turned on. I lift the lid of the laptop on the table to my right and use the blank stare of a word document to illuminate the room enough for reading. I grab a book.

This sleeplessness will only amount to me being well read.