I remember when you said from the far side of the bed it ‘felt like it set your fingertips on fire’ every time that we held hands. You always hid your head beneath a winter’s-worth of blankets when you admitted to your thoughts, so hesitant, so slow, and short of breath.
As if both born mute, we choose to pen our thoughts instead: a written record of the inside of our heads.
Coming-to at noon while skipping work or classes to catch the sunlight as it caught each strand of our eyelashes. And it was hard to feel much guilt, and even harder not to shake, when I would wake to our alarms paired with the stillness of your sleeping face.
Motionless mornings spanned out into quiet afternoons, both unaware and without care of the world outside our rooms.
And I am young. And I’m alive. And I will not apologize, not for what feels right.
We’re keeping quiet because we’d hate to be found out. My mind’s a riot, alive with hope, and with a rising doubt.
There is a place for all this fear, although there’s no spare room in my bed. It’s built for two, just me and you, leaving no room for our anxiety, or fear, or for any of our regret. And I just don’t feel that sorry for this yet, and I won’t anytime too soon I’ll bet.
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