we're laying next to one another in my bed. you've fallen asleep already, but for some reason i'm still awake. you look lovely when you sleep, in the strangest of ways. part of my mind wonders if you're having a nightmare, somewhere behind those lashes and lips and teeth.
i want to touch you. i can't. my hands are on fire, fire, fire.
this isn't enough, damn it. it should be. i wonder if your mind is a galaxy. perhaps your thoughts are planets, spinning and bright and constant. maybe people and worries are comets, meteors, plummeting into atmospheres and untying the neat bows of your gravity.
i read your poems over and over again, try to imagine the stanzas in the sound of your voice, paint by numbers and connect the dots, staring at the shadows on my wall. yes, i look at you from across my bed, and i want to move closer. i want to trace my nails along the curve of your spine, kiss a masterpiece from your neck down to your toes.
i can't, and i feel like i'm on fire, and i look at you and you're still beautiful.
you know how if you say something enough times it loses its meaning. or if you read a poem enough times it becomes nonsense, or listen to a song so much you don't like it anymore.
no, but i look at you for minutes. try to ignore during the seconds. dream of you between the hours. long for you along the days. look at you from across the bed but you never come any closer.
i shouldn't, but i do.