Living Room

I remember laying still, hoping not to wake you. Your breathing slowed and evened, and I waited until I found the pace of your sleep. The TV groaned its loneliness and you groaned to a sigh. Just as I knew I would and just as I always do when I heard your sighs, my hand lifted up to your hair and took hold of it. I shifted to fit you in me, and I breathed you in. I thought, "I can take it. I can take it as long as we're here." Then it came for me. The nibbling suddenness of picturing the squint of your eyes to me. By habit I pictured you awake and smiling, digging yourself into my neck and paying me a visit. My body froze so I closed my eyes to pretend I was asleep with you. When I opened them again, my lips found your forehead like they always do, and I thanked the couch for letting you settle for the night. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts of you. Because once you awoke again, I knew I had to crawl back under the blanketing truth of you, and me, and this living room that never lets me sleep.