When I wake in the middle of the morning I see your bare body glowing in what is left of the moonlight.
It takes my breath away and suddenly every inch of my skin is fiending to feel you like an addict fresh to rehab.
It's been a few hours since I last touched you, since I fell asleep in your arms,
and now that we have rolled to opposite ends of the bed I need the high back again.
You on top of the covers, and I underneathe, I envelope you the best I can and trace imaginary circles in your hair.
I run my fingers down the side of your face covered with stubble and plant feather-lite kisses across your skin
as your poison soaks into my veins and my heart quickens.

I lay there for hours on this high, watching you sleep with dialated eyes,
and trying to hold back these words that sit at the pearly gates of my teeth.
It's maddening; trying to keep the brigade of how I feel and what I know and how I hope behind the enameled walls.
They fight the barrier and pull at my tongue in an attempt to spill from my shaking lips and crash into the drum of your ears.

But I fear if you knew, you would run.

So instead
I take another hit of you
I regather my composure
and face the day of sobriety ahead.