What You Do

There you are. You cannot sleep, but in a way, you are glad. Being awake lets you relish the moment; being awake lets you see him. He's lying on his side with his back to you. His shoulder has three freckles on it; a therefore sign on his back. It's just an arm, but it's ten inches away from you, and you have never seen something so beautiful before. This moment is everlasting torture and you love it. And you want to touch him; to feel him. You want him to feel you, so you reach your hand out, to scratch his back. Your fingertips stop just millimeters from the white fabric of the A-shirt that fits around him so tightly. And in that moment, you're worried to wake him. Not from the touch, but from the sound of your beating heart. And you try to forget last night, but you can't. You remember whispering into his ear how much you want to kiss him, and his pained protestations. And the pain in his voice comes rushing back to you.

How can you tell him how you feel? If there is one thing in the world you've never been more unapologetic for, it is the fact that you want him. And nothing pains you more than knowing that he has to choose, and he doesn't have to choose you, and probably won't. And you want to be selfish and tell him to choose you, but you know he'll hate you if you do that. And you wonder what's greater, the pain you've caused him or the pain he's causing you. And you want your pain to be greater, not to make his less, but because it's the only part of him you can have.

He's turned over now. When you see his face, you know instantly why you've fallen in love. Awake, you can't have him, you can't kiss him, you can't tousle his hair. You can't make him dinner or make him cry or make him fall in love. So you let him sleep, because it's the only time in which you will ever have him.