I’m aware of you there in the bed. Less than a foot away, but it seems like a mile, and I reach across it slowly, unsure of what I’ll find. I laugh, I tease, I talk to chase away the silence…all the time aware of the ice I’m walking on, and hoping I don’t fall through it to the deep ocean underneath.

I’m not ready. I’m thinking things about you that I shouldn’t, and I’m not ready. I want to hold you, I want to know what your skin tastes like, I want to feel if it gives gently under my teeth. But I’m not ready. Neither are you, I think.

So I lay there, listening as your breathing evens out. Chewing my lip sullenly and keeping my hands to myself. Thinking that you smell good, that your fingertips were slightly cool when they touched the space between my shoulder blades. That the sunlight sparkled through your eyes.

And I keep it to myself, that the butterflies in my stomach must be the sign of post-modern love.


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