There's the warmest of bodies next to me and I am resting against the headboard of a bed I have not found comfort in for too long. The drapes are open and I wonder how many people are out there counting stars, wishing they were anywhere else with the warmest of bodies next to them. I know that I should be appreciative for the attention and the comfort, but I feel out of place and exhausted from the race taking place in my head - I can't block out images of a particular set of lips or a particularly crooked smile that I would kill to be the cause of once more before dying.
When he wakes he will be lonely. He will slide closer and pull me towards him, asking questions of where I've been and where I hope to go. He will whisper words of past lovers and how this morning was the best in a while, and I will daydream of one who knew when distance was best and the beauty of a simple sentence and the faintest of kisses. When it comes to words, less is more. And when it comes to love, I often choose the door.
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