I curl up in the cavernous leather chair, hoping to sink into sleep. My head rests upon my rough knees; my chin feeling the slight protrusion of hair pushing through the unshaved skin, something that never bothered you. My tiny hands - as you called them - grasp my ankles tightly, as though I'm keeping myself from falling apart.

The scent of your skin lingers on the chair, in the air. It's been hours, but it still refuses to leave.

The raindrops tap softly against the windowsill, then rapidly race to their death. They can't wait for their gentle demise. For that simple fact, the rain isn't soothing me tonight. It's making me anxious.

I think there's a siren going off in the distance. Maybe it's been doing that for awhile now. You knew how bad I am at keeping time, anyway.

I don't know why I'm still trying to get to sleep. I'm not going to be sleeping, not going to be dreaming tonight. At least not like you.

I slowly peel my fingers from my ankles, carefully and one-by-one (and you always called me impatient). I stand up, planting my feet unsteadily on the hardwood floor. I take hold of the ends of the old charcoal grey t-shirt that you let me have - when was it? - oh, maybe a year or so ago. I raise it from my skin, to find that it is drenched with sweat. I hadn't noticed.

As I bring my arms back down, dropping the shirt to the floor, my fingers lightly rest on my slightly bruised lips. Remnants of your presence a few hours ago - those ravenous kisses, as though you couldn't hold any passion back.

I push my "sunny-colored" hair, as you would call it, away from my face, behind my ears. The curls won't listen, they simply fall back to the place they were comfortably resting before. Damn my impulsiveness. Why did I ever cut my hair? When I met you, it cascaded, delicate, down my back. Now it's up to my chin, blunt and rough-looking. God. Oh, but God, I love how you smiled when you first saw me like this, only a week or so ago, tears in my eyes and cheeks flushed with embarrassment. You had kissed each strand of hair. You had whispered, like a confession, that I was so beautiful. That I was your sunshine. So cliche, but of course I love it. You knew that.

I shut my eyes and slide into the chair.

My bare skin is sticky against the leather as I lay myself back into the same position. It feels as though I haven't moved at all. I wish I could say the same for you.

The telephone is ringing in the kitchen, the one you helped me paint that vibrant red - to remind me I was alive, you'd said. That damn telephone is ringing, urgent and harsh, but I'm trying to block it out. I'm still focusing on sleep - luckily for you, you don't have to deal with that anymore - but the sleep has to come soon, right? Doubt is creeping up my throat as the sweat trickles down my back, on my "too-visible" spin, you'd often called it.

The telephone's still ringing. It refuses to be ignored. I know it's not you. You'd only let it ring once, when you got home, lying in your bed and staring at the ceiling. You knew how hard it is for me to get comfortable again, how difficult it is for me to even fall asleep. Obviously.

I look at the clock. 11:14 PM. Damn. I missed it, by three minutes. I hold in my sigh. You should've called almost two hours ago, letting me know you were home. Safe.

The sirens intensify, then slowly grow softer. They're getting farther away, but I know they're still close. I lick my lips. They taste like your skin.

I know now, I'm in love.

I know now, I'm alone.

I close my eyes tight, hoping the telephone's constant ringing will sing me a lullaby to sleep.