The Way He Looked at Me
His presence is everywhere heat, weight, gravity.
I shove my pillow closer to his, kick my sheets loose, stretch one foot out into the cool air.
And as sleep creeps in, all I can think is this
Tomorrow, there’s no pretending we didn’t cross a line tonight.
And I don’t know which of us is more afraid of what comes next.
His breathing cuts in and out of the dark steady, measured, but wrong. It isn’t slowing the way sleep demands. It’s quickening. Like he’s bracing himself. Like he’s winding up to jump.