This is why I can't write about you. This is why I can't think about you: because once I get started, I can't stop and I can't sleep and my whole body is calling out for you through the walls. I won't sleep better alone, and neither will you. Let me feel the scratch of your beard against my face, let me snuggle into the warmth of you (can I have a kiss?).
I am thinking about how yours is the only snoring that didn't keep me awake, the soft in and out lulling me to sleep on that strange couch. I am thinking of you asleep on the floor beside me in a sleeping bag and how badly I wanted to crawl down there with you and curl up inside your arms but I had to tell myself over and over again, "Bad Idea. Bad Idea. Badideabadideabadideabadidea," so that I'd stay on the couch and keep my hands to myself.
I am thinking about the distance between us and how there really isn't any. I am also thinking about how I will probably look back a few years from now and wonder how it was that I liked you so much I couldn't sleep, how it was that I wanted to spend every minute with you, how I couldn't stop thinking about you. And I will probably laugh, but I will also smile.
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