Between our sleepless incoherency,
and our lack of time to spend,
we kissed, we held, we caressed.
When I think upon it,
it seems so surreal.
I kept falling asleep to the feel
of your lips on my skin
and the scent of your cologne-
so much better than alcohol,
and we weren't drinking.

My bedroom glows purple at night,
and I lay under my fluffy covers
and sprawl myself over the six
pillows that cover my bed.
My body grows impatient
and begs for you to call
and ask if you can come over.

I remember the conversation, though.
"You know I don't want a boyfriend."
"Yes, I know."
"So, what? We make out now?"
"We don't have to."
"And if I make out with someone else?"
"We're not going out."
"So . . . ?"
"We're just friends. Just friends."
"You're not stuck on me? Falling for me?"
"I promise."

I should have been relieved,
but you had to tuck me in.
I should have understood,
but you kissed me good-night.
I tossed and turned
in an unsettling void.
I felt emotionally drunk,
and imagined your figure
in my pillows.
I swam through my sheets,
to surround myself in your
left-over scent and heat.

Between my angry frame,
and my agonizing need,
I toss, I turn, I sigh.
When I think upon it,
I feel so unreal.
I fall asleep to the feel
of being on a merry-go-round;
my room spins and your face
holds the vision of my mind-
and my sweatshirt still smells
just like you-
so much better,
so much better than alcohol;
I'd give it up for you.

 
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