All those time, all I ever wanted was to hug you. It would be wrong, I thought. It would be ironic. One hug would ruin everything. And everything there is now, is worth keeping. I laid there still, moving in circles, turning back then facing you; can't seem to get any sleep. As you wake from time to time and stare, I'd flush pink and curl up in the sheets. And when you eventually turn your back on me I'd start to want to get a hold you all over again, I would stop myself and count sheeps in my head instead.
The light from the window says the sun has arrived. I couldn't get myself from looking at the time. Have I been awake for this long? Or have I been sleeping with my eyes wide. Silence permits us to hear it tick, every second gone rise and fall with your breathing. This might be the last of it. A single mistake, a slight touch, would mean a disaster. One that may last for a long time.
And it ended there. Leaving the mess we have made, walking away from it. It's all that is left to do now. There is no sense for closure, when there isn't any beginning to begin with. Morning winds took me farther and farther--making no trace of yesternights. This really made no sense at all. And giving it meaning would be the last thing on your list.
I've got a few words left burning holes on my tongue, and I've been saving them. (dc)