Hazleton, 2 AM

Even in sleep, he encompasses me. His long tanned arms swallow me whole while I, still barely awake, devour the feeling.

I can't get enough. My fingers are thirsty, moving on smooth sleepy skin, eager for more. Any space between us is too much, legs tangled, fingers entwined, arms wrapped around bared torsos. The sounds of slumber fill the room; steady breath, deep inhales, long exhales and murmurs of content circulate like air conditioning. A bounty of his curls rests in my hand as I teeter on the edge of a sleep prefaced by only innocent kisses and wishes of goodnight.

I don't want it to end, don't want to fall asleep and miss this proximity. I know REM couldn't bring anything better than the reality of right now. It's foreign to me, trying to stay lucid while he dreams, to want to soak up the smooth calm of the moment. I'm drunk off of feeling like I'm part of him - an extension of his artist's hand, his splayed legs. Maybe I'm too hungry for him, but it's glorious to indulge. Gluttonous. I'm savoring each moment, stretching it out, committing it to memory. I want to remember this - This moment, this feeling of satisfaction. My own sigh of content escapes my tired mouth, and he rustles, pulling me closer, running his soft hand down my arm. And I smile, invisible in the dark. I can't help it - He makes me smile by just being there. I catch myself, even in the dark, the corners of my mouth upturned, my cheeks lifted, for no one's benefit but my own. He's far away in his sleep right next to me, but I don't feel alone, deserted; He's present. I feel cared for. Coupled. I tuck myself into his frame, pillows circled around my head, and resign myself to sleep, certain that there's more where this came from.