You shift in your sleep, your knee moving to rest against my thigh. I stiffen as you exhale and tuck your head beneath the crook of my neck. I tentatively inhale, your hair tickling my nose. I’m enveloped in your scent as I lie here, awake in your bed. Acoustic rock had lulled us to sleep, and later, had woken us up. You must’ve turned it off at some point.
I want to roll over, but I’m afraid to move. More than that, I’m afraid you’ll move away. I would prefer to remain close to you, but I’m still unsure if that’s where you want me to be. I’m also unsure if I would be crossing a boundary if I got closer.
You roll over, turning away from my neck. I roll over to face the wall. Your leg, however, finds mine again.
© 2016 Vic Romero