The room is dimly lit, shades of blue caress the sheets. It's a late summer night, the full moon blows kisses into your room through the glass window.
The AC hums quietly- white noise swimming into you. The perfect lullaby.
You groan from under the bed sheets, annoyed. 

You can't sleep.

Rising like a groaning zombie would from his grave, sitting upright, you stare ahead, not really seeing. Staying up so late the night before might not have been a very good idea after all. Not only did the movie you and your friend decided to watch end up being unbearably boring, the conversation responsible for keeping you both up 'till four doesn't seem to exist in your memories. Ugh, what a waste.

You blink a few times; a quick glance at the digital clock next to your bed indicates it's... late. No surprise there. The numbers glow electric blue.

4:08

You don't remember the last time you were awake in your bed like this, at such an unholy hour; you have a vague memory of feeling particularly restless one night and considering getting a midnight snack. God knows what you decided to eat, whatever it was is too far back in your memories now, even if you remember clearly what happened moments before.
Such is life- the little things often forgotten, even if they are the key to happiness.
Now's not the time to begin pondering such things, though.
It's admittedly hard to anyways, you're quite distracted.

You didn't notice it then- that sleepless night- but the moonlight slipping in from outside your window is illuminating the room- just enough- to see the bed clearly, and what's happening on it.
The numbers' blue light is painting waves into the creases of the sheets.
Empty, white ocean in the night, velvety smooth stroking your legs through the cloth.
You move your them for a moment, slowly, finding yourself amused by the effects of the lighting. A lazy, sleepy smile decorates your face
along with the faintest chuckle.

"Thomas..."

You don't know it, but you're nearly half asleep.
The thoughts cup your cheek, turning into dreams the more they whisper. You lean into their touch, laying back down, your hair decorating the pillow.
Brush strokes on a white canvas.

To your right, six feet away from the bed, there is a window. You like using a thin bed sheet as a curtain sometimes- it's thin enough to let the perfect amount of sunlight through in the mornings. Ever since the day you discovered waking up to the warmth of the sun was a lot like waking next to a lover, you can't help but find it romantic. Even if it is cheesy; it's become a habit now, and you're only a little embarrassed about your fiery crush.
But really, who could blame you? It's nothing short of amazing-
sun ray kisses warming your back, distilled light breathing up your arms, sun-lit lips just barely grazing your skin... audible sighs tickling your neck, warm hands caressing your shoulders in silent pleas for attention. Mm, that's a different lover now, isn't it?

"Wake up, Guillaume. I miss you, please kiss me..."

Ah, you remember now.
Milk and honey. That's what you had that night. It was hot, liquid-thin on your tongue but thick in it's taste.
(It's odd, now that you think about it- if there's anything you'll drink before going to sleep, it's wine. What happened? What made you crave warmth and sugar- like a child- of all things? You can't remember.)
You started taking small sips of it, eventually becoming impatient, feeling that if you took too long, you would become restless again.
You downed the last of it- an even, smooth flow burning your throat (you sigh at the memory of the feeling, it was very satisfying at the time), the milk becoming sweeter and sweeter as your nose peeked further into the mug.

Sleepy dragon's breath, hot and sweet on your nose.

You added too much honey, you recall. It piled at the bottom and you sipped the last of it, feeling- just barely- its weight on your upper lip.
Rose kiss on cupid's bow.
"Please, open..." it would beg, if it could.
You did, but only a little of it was allowed to reach your tongue.
Too sweet.

"Nnh.."

How silly you would look to him now; whining like a petulant child at the thought of your warm milk having too much honey. "Relax, it's only a memory." he would say, petting your hair and smiling down at half-dreaming you, your head on his lap.

Your eyes are closed now.
You think about the too-sweet honey, the sunlight and the ocean all at once. You feel them; a flurry of taste, touch, of memories. Silver smile.

Drifting, ocean-blue eyes disappearing behind curtains that fall
like pebbles underwater, falling slowly on beds of sand. Landing without a sound.
You're seconds away from sleep, the image of waking next to your bright, fiery lover making you speak.


"Good morning... Thomas..."


Goodnight, Guillaume.