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She never used to sleep. But me, I feel I've been asleep my entire life.

Work and school. Dreams and waking. I never knew the difference. The world before me blurring together in one low level drone. No definite lines of unrest or contentment. No definite lines at all.

But her? She never used to sleep.

When we first met, that dark corner outside the pub downtown, hours of alcohol blurring our shapes in the eyes of the drunks falling past the door frame and spilling onto the pavement. Their songs and yelling feel far away, an echo. And all I remember is wine and pillows and early morning light pounding into my head.

But her? She never used to sleep.

Blue eyes. Just… there. Open when I fell asleep, open as I dreamt of going away and staying home and everything else, open when I woke up. She never slept. She never woke up as far I know, because she was never asleep. The energy in those eyes wore me down, made me tired, soothed me to slumber like a lullaby. They propelled her. Always up, always moving. Faster, slower, right, left. It all made me so tired.

But her? She never used to sleep.

I never used to stay awake. But now I can't keep my eyes closed for fear of missing something. For fear of missing her.

It's been six years and I still don't sleep. But her? All she does is sleep.