Well, you know who you are.
It's almost dawn and I'm lying on my back on your bed counting specks on your ceiling (onehundredtwothirty-eightthousand-and-eleven) and you're still hungover from one too many mojitos (they kept askingandasking and you've just never been able to say no) and we're talking in whispers (despite nobody else being home) about love and life; and you don't complain when I'm talkingtalkingtalking and my sentences run on-and-on-and-on. Instead you chuckle softly, the sound like a gremlin with a phlegm problem (and you scowl just like a gremlin when I point out that if you'd only stop smoking—)
Your hand slips over mine (neither of us mention how it fits so perfectly) and your thumb strokes up my forefinger absently, outlining the ragged tip of the fingernail I've been gnawing at for the past fifteen minutes without noticing. You turn your head and I turn mine; our eyes meet and yours are brown like pools of hot cocoa I could drown forever in
(next to you I feel so uninteresting).
Rolling onto your side, you loom over me and your face is within inches of mine; I've lost track of which scent belongs to who (is that mint from my mouthwash or your last cocktail?) yet it fills my head and drowns out all my other senses until your mouth (and my racing heartbeat) is all I can concentrate on.
I whisper "I don't think I'm ready for this"—
The heat dies in your eyes and I wish I was blind so my heart wouldn't twist painfully in my chest like this; I wish you would get upset and scream or do something(anything).
Nothing hurts me worse than your vulnerability.
—(a heart for a heart only ends up making the whole world heartless)—