It?s three AM and he can?t sleep.
He?s lying there, bare except for the dark comforter wrapped around him, offering a contrast of skin and fabric, with her sleeping, just as bare beside him. Near him. On him. Her breathing presses her closer to him, head on his shoulder, hair wild and curly, her mind taking her places he?s never been but wants to know about. And it?s dark, cozy. It?s three A.M.
And he can?t sleep.
On nights like this, in a different bed with different sheets and familiar things surrounding him, he?d distract himself. He?d watch a horror, or play some Xbox or read. Or sometimes, when these things failed and he could cross them off like a grocery list, he?d curl his body around an imaginary one. He?d picture hair and smooth skin and soft breaths. He?d picture those things and slowly let his mind shut down, drift off. But now he has the real thing, he?s not pretending. Still, it?s three A.M.
Still, he can?t sleep.
His mind moves fast, too fast for him to catch up. He wonders if he?s using her, taking advantage of soft hair and softer eyes, of a gigawatt smile and a bubbly giggly personality that goes well with his, belongs next to his own. She looks good on his arm, her hand fits well in his. He wonders, as his eyes rake over unfamiliar surroundings, taking in the tiles of her ceiling and the cracks in her walls. He wonders if he?s good enough. He wonders, and he knows that it?s still three A.M.
He just can?t sleep.
She is porcelain in the moonlight as she lets out a soft sound he likes to think is his name. She is an angel slumbering as she buries her face into the crook of where shoulder meets neck, her breath exploding on a quiet sigh. Why is she here, sleeping on him? He?s clumsy and loud. He?s insecure and inappropriate. Why? The one syllable word booms through his mind, cannon fire on the waves of his thoughts. Why her? Why him? Why here? Why three A.M.?
Why can?t he sleep?
At the moment he feels the questions mount like a chorus of onlookers at an execution, threatening to consume him and ruin what little amount of confidence this night as achieved, at the breaking point, boiling point, point of no return, he feels a stir. The sound he liked to think was his name becomes his name, her lips forming the words on his neck, her hand finds his, lying on his bare stomach, clenched from the tension.
A small flex, and her hand is holding his. Her fingers filling the voids between his, completing them both, fulfilling them both, just like that.
Just like that.
He huffs a laugh out, squeezes her hand. The insecurities flutter with the wisp of sound, ejected fo the night. He smiles in the moonlight.
It?s perfect.
It?s three A.M.
He drifts off to sleep.
Source: http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/RolePlayGateway/~3/sHQl4-QQxV0/viewtopic.php
epiphany exorcism jersey shore season 5 mark driscoll unemployment rate unemployment rate jesse ventura
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.