It's a good thing you're so small, because this twin bed could barely fit a single large person, and my spatial awareness skills aren't able to explain how a tall, thin guy and a shorter, figured girl can Tetris-piece themselves together into some kind of romantically amorphous mass.
You're out cold and I'm the big spoon. Your heart's beating hard enough that I can feel it through your back against my bare chest. You breathe in and out almost precisely to the rhythm of "Us and Them" and I wonder if you're actually awake, doing it on purpose, wondering if I'll notice the syncopation.
As seconds and minutes and hours pass, I can't bring myself to try and sleep. I'm revitalized by your breathing, the inhalation and exhalation giving me air of my own.
I wonder what you're dreaming about. I can only imagine what your dreams would be like. There's this episode of the Batman cartoon that I remember seeing when I was ten and the Mad Hatter puts Batman in a dream world of his own creation and the only way Batman realizes that it's not real is because the books are all filled with gibberish because in real life he obviously hasn't read them all. But I imagine that your dreams are filled with books that you just haven't written yet, stark words on full pages that are locked up inside that beautiful brain of yours. There's something in your eyes that speaks solely to the future and they've managed to sink their hooks into me. I can't look away from you.
I got here hours ago, tired of metaphors. Now all I can think of are stories.