It is four a.m, and you are sleeping next to me,
There is no sound except for you breathing deeply next to me,
Slowly in and out,

The light which creeps in from the window,
Illuminates your features,
Your long eyelashes are cast in shadows across your rosy cheekbones even longer than they actually are,

You mutter incoherent things,
Tossing and turning,
Turning yourself away from me,

I edge myself closer to every new position you fold yourself into,
Sometimes there is no room for me,
The folds of your sleeping body too rigid, too guarded for me to get close,
So, I sit on the outskirts watching you,
Desperate for you to fold my body into yours,

Other times, your sleeping body is perfectly folded,
To allow myself to fold my body into yours,
My body folds into the crevices and hollows of your body like they were put there for the sole intention of making me feel safe

In these rare moments at four a.m,
I fold myself into you,
I mold my body to yours,
I burrow deep into the crevices of you,

You mutter something again,
This time much more coherent,
My name,
And then your sleeping body subconsciously pulls me closer to you.