My grandmother likes to tell me that some kinds of tired are temporary; all you have to do is lie down, close your eyes, and your head will be clear again. But other kinds of tired are permanent; a kind of thing that settles like dust, like iron inside you and makes your bones ache. You like to call me at one in the morning, and I can’t stop myself from answering. It’s always the same conversation, filled with thick-tongued slurs and oil-slick whispers. We are both exhausted, never failing to find our way to back to bed. Heavy lids, lead limbs, whiskey kisses, and I swear this feels like a dream I’ve had before. I wake up alone to cold sheets, still grasping at the hazy edges of sleep. My grandmother is right; some kinds of tired are permanent, but at least this ache in my bones reminds me of you.

—	virgowithacomputer (via wnq-writers)