Pillow Talk

I find solace in the dysfunctionality that is you and I. Somehow I find comfort in the chaos and beauty in the way we dance on the fine line avoiding land mines on the line between romanticism and platonic interaction. I keep it coy and you keep it cool but we both keep it known between each other, “hey, I like you”. As I lay here on the edge of the bed as if it were a tight rope and you lay in the center like a king claiming his space, I’v somehow slipped through the crack between possessive and generous into complacent because, well, I missed you. And apparently if giving you my bed is what it takes to get you back at a tangible proximity then damn it, why not. But don’t think I didn’t think to lay on you, or long for your arm to draw me close; to draw me near. But those days are no longer here and now, all I can do is accidentally, but not sorry I did, brush my hand up against your ass as I work to rotate without breaking this circus act of being on the edge of this twin size bed. I’ve been banished in my own house, my own room, my own bed…and I let you. Because even though physically at the moment I’m my own personal Circ de Sole, mentally I seem to be quite okay as we lay here and play with dysfunctionality that is you and I. Until the times come to say goodbye and then I hate myself and I might want to cry but I won’t let myself go there, oh no. I’ll close the door, walk to the car, drive to work and sell someone a shoe with a smile on my face as I inwardly burn to distract my heart from missing him, but I’m forever missing him.