I lie in bed. Eye the frosted glass panes of the front door. 
 
Swaying branches of the tree outside, play tricks on my sights. A long branch vies for attention from those lower and smaller than itself. Brisk movements of this leafy arm catch my overly aware attention as it swats the others out of view. A muted orange glow from the light across the way enhances the shadowy reflection of the crisscross fence beside, warding off passersby walking through the alley. 

I may doze off into a light slumber. The rest does not linger. I may wake with a jolt from the heavy-footed neighbor above. Then, when a shadow moves, adrenaline sparks energy throughout my limbs. I can't seem to look away, and as minutes hours pass, I grow weary of these abstract annoyances. 
 
Seeking sanctuary, I scoot over to his cool, empty side of the bed. It's that much closer to the door. I'm no longer tucked into the farthest corner of our studio space. Then, I roll over to face the wall. Solely focused on sleep---its relentless hum flutters beneath my eyelids, coaxing them to meet.
 
Most nights, however, avoidance doesn't put my nerves and active and self torturing imagination to rest. I lie awake until just before he arrives home. Text him to chat. Yes, I'm still awake.

When the key (finally) clicks the door open, the shadows are swept away. Somehow they vanish even when door resumes its hold. 
 
There's comfort in that click. His return.