We lie next to one another
breathing in short, uneven sighs.
Relief for him, remorse for me.
I touch his skin so he won't feel that I've already left him, playing with his hair while he daydreams.
He muses that perhaps the multitude of substances I've abused have made their way to the surface of my skin
Intoxicating, and imprisoning him, bringing him back to me always.
I dress quickly, anxious to be decent again
And tell him that he should avoid developing a taste for toxins.
He grabs my hand, pulling me back into a warm nest of blankets, pillows, and plenty of self loathing.
"I've never felt this way before" he lies, as he tries his best to catch my gaze.
I develop a newfound interest in the moon shaped marks my nails are leaving behind on the palm of my hand.
"I'm not good with words" I mutter to both of us.
He assumes I'm lost searching for adjectives to express my infatuation and assures me that words are overrated.
That what's meant to be cannot be stopped.
And I silently agree to myself later on as I tie my shoes to the rhythm of his unconscious breathing.