I am here, perpendicular to the boy, wholly in my sleep-deprived state. He pushes his hand through his hair and sighs, sighs, says he is still in love. What would happen if suddenly we were adjacent and these sheets became softer? Would he still say that he feels nothing for me at all, not ever? If we watch enough documentary film, I think we can fix this apartment up, make it something nicer than what it seems to be, chipped paint and the absence of water pressure being among the least of our concerns. He tells me how much he loves suspension bridges and I want so badly to believe him. I prefer the tunnels with stairwells, the elevated platforms with open floor plans. We still don’t touch but he has wet dreams anyways. He tells me I look like one of those lonely gays who only masturbate when they’re sad. I think this means he cares.