insomnia.

He had the bad habit ("it's not a habit if you do it on purpose") of staying awake at night for days in a row whenever something would trouble his otherwise no less troubled brain.
The girl, however, she slept to forget. Wiped her tears and closed her eyes and slept for hours and days. Like a rock. Like an angel. It depended on the days and whether it was her or something else that was keeping him awake.
But for the most, he envied her.
Envied the way she would crawl into his bed and invade his nostrils with her cheap perfume and he would look at her hair - it was dark and curly but she would always straighten it in the morning; you never are quite the way you want to be - while she slept and kept him up all night.
And his sheets would smell of her every time she left. And he wouldn't be able to sleep until he got rid of that scent.
Sometimes he would do that by offering his bed to girls whose bedtime habits didn't include sleeping, and he wouldn't remember their names but his bed would smell of sex and cigarettes when they left and he would sleep.
And in the morning he would wake up to her perfume, strong and demanding, and he would call her ("build me a model scale version of San Francisco, I've got a great idea for a disaster") and when her answering machine would pick up, he would remember how much he hated her voice.
And then he'd clean his sheets that smelled like sex with other girls whose names he couldn't remember and would trade them for ones that smelled of sex with her - he was sure she had a brilliant, ordinary name but he liked to call her insomnia instead and thought it was fitting.
She was a lie and he hated her. Kept wishing she would stop coming back until he realized he was the one who couldn't quit her. Like a habit. ("It's not a habit if you do it on purpose." It's not a habit. It's not.)
On her skin there were bruises from nights she hadn't spent with him and he hated himself for noticing how good they looked against the dark ink he was covered in. He would feel her pulse every time he licked her neck and steal her hopes as he watched her falling apart.
And he would hope they hadn't woken up his parents and in the morning his sheets would smell of sex with her and keep him awake for no less than four nights listening to songs he hated but reminded him of her.
On occasion, they would listen to those songs together and he would hate her for making them lose their meaning, falling asleep on his bed while he watched her pale chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm and wondered how could she make him want to fuck her so bad even when she wasn't awake.
But for the most, he envied her.
And some nights he wished he could stop the words from invading his brain the way her cheap perfume invaded his nostrils as he played with her hair that was now starting to curl at the ends.
She came because she couldn't afford to close her eyes elsewhere. He wanted her to go because he couldn't afford to close his eyes whenever she was around for fear she would be gone the next time he opened them. And she was always gone nonetheless.
And insomnia would fill his brain and take over him and he would watch her bones break in his hands just to prove himself she was real.
But she wasn't.
And he envied her for that.