The sun shines through the sheets hanging from your windows as makeshift curtains, and I feel your hand reach over to pat my head. Oh there you are. I’ve missed you. You used to do that before. You know, make me feel as if it could actually work. Like I actually mean something to you. Something more than enthusiastic road head and a tight pussy.
Head rubs usually meant “Good morning,” you were horny, or sometimes both. I turn to my side. Not because I don’t want to feel your body against mine, but because I don’t want to face the day. To get up and leave knowing that whatever we just shared, as menial as it was, only exists as long as I lay in that bed. I just want to lay there with you. Not in an “OMG I could do this forever” way. I’m an idiot, but I’m realistic. But in a let me pretend for a little bit kind of way.
Your arm slides across my waist and you rest your other hand on my thigh. Squeezing it every so often. I’m a tiny little thing, but I thank the universe for granting me a little bit of thickness where it counts. You’re being sweet to me. It makes me sad and happy at the same time, but mostly sad.
Moments like these are fleeting, and I know it’s only time until I feel like a convenience again. The anxiety is far less often, but the intensity remains the same. A picture, a mention, the mere thought of your hands on someone else. The inevitable potential of you looking at someone the way you could never, and would never look at me. That feeling of not existing until I do again.