If only I could hear Allen, his voice in another room and know that he was soon coming to bed. In the warmth and comfort of his arms, sleep would soon be upon me. Instead my only company are the books at my bedside. Illustrations of deformed organs and stillborn infants, descriptions of all the ways one might die in childbirth—the stuff of nightmares surely. The photography book, on the other hand, is numbing, with its “depth of focus” and “width of angle” and chemical formulae, but I will turn to those pages, for at least they might lull me to sleep.
