We are on the couch. He is fast asleep.
Cheek sinking lightly into the pillow,
breathing in soft snores peacefully,
oblivious to all emotions transpired.
Like delicate tails of aged lace
his hair covers his cheeks,
his collarbones.
Just below his milky shoulders are faint freckles
balanced on his skin like stars in the navy sky.
Light from the whitish tranquil moon seeps through sheer curtains,
along with the peculiar sound of dishes being washed in the next room.
The glimmer of the television still plays upon the walls.
Nothing changes.
But there he wakes.
Then looks me straight in the eyes.
And his orbs were unnaturally limpid.
I'd never noticed.
They gave me a bizarre, pure feeling.
Just shot right through me.
Like gazing at the sky.
Almost without thinking, I drew nearer to him.
It took no longer than a second to bury myself in his glow,
to feel his breaths and grip on my fingers tighten.
His five fingers, in search of something, roaming over my back.
He cradles me in his right arm,
I stroke his fine strands of hair with my left.
For a while, he waits for me to sleep first.
Eventually, I always do.
And that's it.
Actually.