I open my eyes and he's gone. I can't hide my disappointment.
Even though I know he won't be here when I wake, a wave of depression washes over me every time I have to face it. I miss him already, but cling to the thought of seeing him tonight. I need him and he knows it; I pull the comforter tighter around me and pretend its warmth is him.
I close my eyes and he's here. The sun is gone and darkness has already consumed the room. He lets me slide onto the bed first. I love that he lifts the cover for me and doesn't let it go until he's tucked by my side. My back is to him, but I like it best this way. I don't want to look at him... not really... I know what I'll see and what I won't and I don't like to deal with how that makes me feel because he'll ask and I'll answer and I don't want to talk about it. I just want to be with him. I just want him to be here.
His body and mine fit perfectly beside each other, as if he were made for me or I for him. His arm is stretched over my waist and my mind concocts a million reasons why my heart should be racing and I should be melting under the weight of his touch. It feels good to know he's here, but I don't melt. It's not logical. I love us like this: my back turned to him, his arm around me... But I don't love him. I can't. He says he loves me and sometimes--- at these times--- I think I know I love him too. But I never say it. I can't say it. And if he can say it and mean it, but I can't say it and think it, it must mean I don't mean it, even if I want to.
When he exhales, so do I; our breathing is in sync. He breathes in, I breathe in... Silently, we remind each other that we're here.
He brushes my hair away from my neck and places his lips on my skin. I savor his touch because I know the feeling will escape me if I don't. The feeling, itself, doesn't last long, but the memory of that touch lasts forever. Even when he pulls away, it lingers because I won't let it go.
He runs his hand along my waist, up and down, up and down. I burrow into him and it makes him smile. "What's wrong?" he asks. I take a deep breath about to speak, but I hold it in, afraid to give him more than I think he'll let me take.
"I don't know," I say. But I do. There's always something, isn't there.
I'll leave you with that, Lovelies. I hope you enjoyed!
'Til next time,
P.S. Reminder: Monday starts the BEING WRITER series. This series won't interrupt ITIK. :)