Petite, tan skinned girl who sleeps in my bed every other night.
You ask for one of my shirts in which ends up being like a blanket to you due to my morbid obesity.
And I hand you one of my friend's bands shirts.
You put it on and we lay in bed and I tell you a story about hanging with them in hopes that maybe you'll think I'm a little cooler than I really am.
You'll pretend to be drunk off the ten ounce beer we shared as you put your arms around me.
I'll hold your hand and you'll tightly hold back.
The kind of tight that's just loose enough to let the person escape so they can catch their flight home.
Knowing that you won't see them again for another two years.
Knowing that maybe you won't see them at all.
Knowing that maybe I don't even know you at all.
We'll talk for awhile.
But then you'll gently slither across the bed, like you're forever escaping the wrath of an angry father
You'll come back to me throughout the night like my grandmother so often does.
But then I wake up and find it was all a dream.
That all my friends' bands have broken up.
That I'm still morbidly obese.
That my brother and my best friend live way too far away.
That my grandmother has been dead for twelve years.
And that you, petite, tan skinned girl who sleeps in my bed every other night.
You have a lover.