And may this be one of those blessed blunted nights, when an empty bed is as good a bed as any to breathe out into oblivion, when a trap you fell into by way of escaping is freedom again. Did your head really ever fit in that crook between arm and heart anyway? Who really lay there long enough for you to be sure? Be glad the sun will come up and it won’t show anyone the door before you get the chance, that you won’t for shame feign sleep when a woken someone surreptitious picks puddled stale clothes from covers and carpet and airlifts their shoes until out a door that in closing will make the loudest sound either of you have heard anyway. May sleep obscure form heart and ears the silent sound of every unanswered call you made to all those better-than-alone boys. Better, then, have something strong, ‘cause people like us, babe, we have to make our own blessings.