It always seemed terribly cliche to write poems while you slept beside me. Now I know first hand that it is, but I don’t care.
It’s just so incredibly personal to explain how simple and childish a grown man can appear when his guard comes down and the mask dissolves. How I feel as though I can still sense the warm hazel beneath your eyelids. How it’s only a few beats before my breath matches yours. How even though my body is begging for sleep, I can’t stop watching you.
Perhaps it’s the innate and sleepy peacefulness that rests over you like a veil. Or maybe the tequila is to blame.
Regardless, my body fights me for rest, and I try to compromise by lying completely still but refusing to slip into unconsciousness. I’m aware that you’ll catch me staring if you wake too suddenly, but the risk seems miniscule next to the reward. I wish I could move closer, count your eyelashes, scan for freckles. Being anywhere near you brings me to a state of calm that I haven’t felt in years.
Daylight crept through the blinds far too early, and morning dragged in a new tune of shyness within me. Your eyes were already on mine when I woke with my hair in knots and mascara smudged across one temple. When I hid my face, you laughed out loud, and the contradiction to our whispers was electric. How long ago since I woke up with butterflies? I wonder. Your quiet smile tells me that it doesn’t matter how long it’s been – this is us, and this is now.