Letters to my lover
Where our foreheads meet is clammy, the tips of our nose touching while your hand is slightly curled under my cheek. My hand is under yours. You sleep and I don’t; I wonder what is going on in that head of yours. We smell like the fire from the night- it’s almost suffocating but I’d rather sift through the smog for oxygen than get any further away from you.
You look sweet, your lips are slightly parted as the stress of your day melts away to a dreamless, alcohol induced sleep.
How do you do that?
I had to help you inside, the house is dark, lit only by artificial candles that live in the window sill. The floor creaks more than usual as you are too drunk to match my steps as you usually do. I prefer this, the stiffness of the main level of the house is relieved for now. Your arm lazily draped around my shoulder, occasionally your body would lurch forward as you forgot that we needed to continue walking. I catch you in the air and tell you you’re okay. You still got me a Gatorade in one moment where you regain consciousness and bodily control. As we descend the steps I think about where I’m going to catch you if you fall. I think about which clothes you’ll want to put on when we reach your bedroom.
We take care of each other. Maybe that’s the most important quality we have. I admit we do not have a ton in common- but our personalities bind like a zipper, filling voids to which the other lacks creating an effective system interrupted seldom due to technical errors.
Your hand remains on my face and it smells like chocolate. You feel like home, and it makes me able to hold on to the little bit of sanity I have left.
