figure eights and morning breath

we were in bed, only it was less of a bed and more of the only place we really knew each other

the most intimate place with limbs tangled and hair played with and figure eights drawn on lower backs

you snoring when you slept on your left and me knowing that

the only person i would let steal the side of my bed on which i religiously sleep

not exactly telling the truth when i said you kick me in the face when you sleep at the other end because all i really want is you to sleep fit next to me

telling you i sleep the best when you’re in my bed, but really feeling awake all night (because how could i sleep with you next to me?)

the weird haze of snuggling when i just feel whole with you there, and we just climb closer and closer into the other person

you kissing me on the lips on our last morning thinking i am asleep, being the most awake i have ever felt and my heart even less so, which has been busy making matching heart shaped holes in my chest and stomach where it jumped and then fell, while i grew nervous you would hear how fast it was beating

me kissing you on the chin the morning after my birthday while you were asleep, going over and over in my head trying to convince myself to do it, to redeem myself for not opening my eyes the first time

your morning breath being something i not even just don’t mind, but look forward to

me licking your forehead in a different country and you remembering the last time i licked you face was the day you left for home

you leaving for home feeling ironic to me (because you feel like my home)

sleeping face to face, all smushed together, sweaty and snoring, bad breath and unshaved legs and never being more comfortable in my whole existence

always waking up with a stupid smile on my face because i know yours is right next to mine

me being your best friend and you being my…best friend

By Margaux M. Wilhite