When I close my eyes and indulge the night, I find loneliness lives in the dark. The kind of loneliness in which plays a continuos reel of intimate moments of fingers intertwining hair and kissing between sleep. Projecting moments where warmth is a feeling conjured between the friction of spirits,
I can see him with his body hovering above mine, the outstretch of his arms balanced between the width of upper body. His brow in an meek furrow of wonderment as the brown of his eyes follow the waving curves of my lips as they grow and settle in a wandering grin of happiness and realization of current happiness. Everything we say is without words and I understand you. Our quiet is alive with conversation.
I demand that you to be on the other side of the bed when I open my eyes. As I stake my demand, letting in the little amount of light, I convince myself you will be. But you're not. Nothing is on the left side of the bed but the haunt of where the length of my arm could reach out and lie flat against your milky skin, moving across the bends of your body to where your waist anchors the pull me close.
Nothing and loneliness are all that I have in the night.