A night for peasant.

The evening was barely evening and already it had felt like hours that I had been on the couch. Sitting alone. Watching nothing inparticular on tv alone. Snacking on chilly carrots made unhealthy by thick dollops of ranch alone. Talking to the cat was starting to feel like a good idea, if only to not be alone for a moment longer. But the cat wouldn't talk back, at least not in any tounge I understand. So I remained alone. Petting the cat alone. It was cold in the apartment. I should have turned the ac down, I'm not the one that likes it so cold. But wrapping up in a blanket felt less alone. So I snuggled in my olive green throw on the couch watching an old cold war spy movie eating carrots petting a purring kitty alone.

Now it has finally reached night and I'm laying in bed alone. My legs free to sprawl across without bumping into your legs. You're not here to steal back the covers I've tangled up onto my side. My laptop quietly plays soft music that would keep you awake. But you're not here to be kept awake. I listen to bittersweet stories of lost love alone. But they make no mention of this, love attained but distanced. To love and to be loved and to be alone. I find it unacceptable that I feel alone only because I am not. I know what your touch is and not having it makes my skin ache. I need your lips because my lips know their feel. Hearing your breath as you sleep is more soothing than any delicately strummed string instrument.

But such sounds are soothing none the less and to sleep I am ascending, where my dreams I shall be not alone but laying next to you resting peacefully on your chest.


- Posted on the go, with help from stuff & bunnies.