We lay in bed, my fingers tracing flowers on your back while you close your eyes and whisper that you're falling asleep. I want to ask you if you'll ever open up to me, but sleep does not come easy so I bite my tongue and hope you glimpse my thoughts trickling out onto the pillow instead.
We stare at the ceiling like soulful beings and I wish you'd kiss me, but you rest your head on my chest while Scully and Mulder crack jokes about aliens and cellophane. I feel you melt into dreamland while I brush your hair off your face and I wish I could lay here forever, tangled up with you.
I like to think that I'm the one that got away, but all along I've just been asking you to stay and I cannot seem to find it within myself to hate you for it. You once told me there is no hurry, we've got time, but my clock is ticking down and I've spent too many nights not being Her.
As my hands slide below the sheets, I realize feeling this easy has never been so hard and god, I wish you'd fuck me. You cover my mouth the way I like, as we leave messes on the bed, our cheeks becoming a blotchy shade of pink.
You roll over and I grab your hand, wondering if you knew how much I wish I meant to you. But then we roll over again, and go our separate ways: I realize that this is not love, it is loneliness and I miss myself the most.