He calls me Sleepy Girl and brushes my hair back behind my ear. I can feel him next to me. I can hear him next to me.“Sleepy Girl,” he calls, quietly, as if he doesn’t actually want to wake me. So I tell him to let me sleep. But in the morning, he calls my name again.
“Sleepy Girl.”
"Time to wake up.”
"Wake up, Sleepy Girl.”
But he’s rubbing my back and stroking my neck and leaning on me and I want to pretend I’m still asleep so he won’t stop, but he can see me smiling and I don’t try to pretend I’m not. I don’t try to conceal my affectionate adoration."If you put your back against the couch, you can be the big spoon.”
I do and he lays down. I throw my arm over him and tuck my face into his back, and let my breath escape over his skin. Eventually, he lets our fingers tangle.Then he turns over, no objections, and I let him hold me, and I can feel him there, in front of me, and he’s so warm and I want to kiss him even though I know I shouldn’t. He’s so warm and I want to love him even though I know I shouldn’t.
And I swear his heart is so big and so welcoming. And I swear his heart beats in the same rhythm. And I swear his heart likes to whisper my name.
"Sleepy Girl,” it calls.
Quietly.
As if it doesn’t actually want me to hear. And part of me doesn’t either.
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