You’d always fall asleep before me.
My head would rest on your shoulder,
Your breathing rhythm would be out of step with mine
And your breath would pillow pieces of my hair,
As your body would cave deeper with every exhale,
And you were still so careful to not let your shoulders and arms around me disturb me,
Moving a little, hesitating, trying to control your slumber, when you would feel yourself falling deeper into sleep,
As to not wake me.
Sometimes I’d open my eyes and you’d open yours;
You’d know when I was awake.
I’d turn my body, with you behind me, and nothing needed to be said.
Your arms would find their way around mine,
And sometimes your hand would find its way to mine, too.
You’d inhale the back of my tangled hair
And I’d inhale with you,
Taking in the scent of you along with the moment.
Your kneecaps in the back of my legs,
Your feet weaved in-between mine;
You’d take a breath and your bare stomach
Would touch my bare back
Your skin would stick to mine
And you would say I was a human thermostat
Even though I’m usually always cold.
And through the night, we’d toss and turn,
And sleep was rarely ever a time where rest was reached;
I would wake up six or seven times,
I’d hear you mumble nonsense in your sleep
Or the rising sun would creep through the blinds
And I’d see you. I’d wake up next to you, and you were what I saw; your big, hazel eyes and tousled perfect bedhead. You were what I heard; your deep, raspy “good morning.” And you were what I felt. And what I felt was completely at peace. Tired, but at peace.
Oh, to have those problems again.