He

In the quiet of the dark and too early hours of the morning, my mind swam through consciousness and a hazy dream of the hours just passed. I tilted my head to face my window, nested under his neck to be roofed by the growing stubble of his laziness, and closed my eyes. "You're my best friend," I heard. I knew he felt me smile quietly. And his few silent sighs were followed by professing his affinity for me. An adoration, I always say. I fell silent. Smiled, sweet, sleepy, sarcastic and satisfied. I breathed him in. I waited for the grayish blue to peer through my blinds. A quiet morning from our quiet night of lovers' conversations, whispered secrets and quiet smiles. Hands on the small of backs, on spines, on shoulder blades, on the backs of necks. Of grazing, traveling finger tips, crossing miles of plain of skin and concerned so curious about every contour, every crease, every cut, every scar and line and wrinkle. I wrapped and unwrapped, wriggled and wrung. I breathed him in. Turned away. Faced him. And fought my constant battle for a dream. To dream. Heavier and heavier...