But I asked you to leave your key under the mat

       
         
I woke up to        
the feel of          
your thumb          
skimming that        
space at the top        
of my ribs,        
and froze for        
a half second too long.        
         
I asked you          
to get your stuff        
when I wasn’t here.        
         
I asked you to leave          
your key under the mat.        
         
But some fucking how        
I’m pressed against        
my perfect fit.        
One more time.        
         
Your right hand        
lightly spans my          
stomach.        
You’re on your side,        
I’m on my back, and          
you have your        
legs thrown over          
me like I’m a          
full body pillow.        
         
Your left arm is        
under my neck,        
and probably fell asleep        
hours ago.        
         
Your chin rests        
on top of my head,        
and my hands,          
of their own          
violation        
reached up          
to hold you.      
         
We breathe in sync.        
         
I keep my          
eyes closed        
assaulted by the        
strobe-light flip book          
behind my        
lashes.        
         
The last time you were here…        
         
Those shattered fucking nights        
that left me sore the next day.        
       
The secret meetings          
under the sheets          
that always ended        
so        
damn        
good.        
       
The time you pinned me        
down when I said        
I hated you and          
ended with me        
swearing there’d        
never be anyone          
as good as you.        
         
Fucking never.        
         
I hope I showed          
you what I really        
felt that night.        
         
The time I lay          
in your lap,        
quiet,        
and found a          
moment of respite.        
         
My eyes are          
screwed shut.          
Your heart        
beats against          
my shoulder.        
My grip tightens        
slightly.        
         
And the flip book goes        
to me          
alone        
in the center of the bed        
with the covers pulled over        
like a shroud,        
curled in the fetal position        
trying not to waste tears        
on betrayal.        
And failing.        
         
And fucking failing.        
         
I swallow too hard        
for you to not        
notice.        
         
Any minute          
I have to wake up.        
Throw a punch and          
push you out          
of my bed        
with everything        
I have.        
         
Any minute,          
I’ll start screaming        
and toss your          
things to the curb.        
         
Any minute I’m          
going to say some        
shit I can’t take back.        
         
But right now.        
         
Right now        
I just want to          
feel the skim        
of your thumb        
at the top        
of my ribs.        
         
Your breath catches    
as a tear escapes my eye        
and falls on your neck.        
         
So I pretend    
to be asleep.  
         
Your lips press          
against my          
forehead        
leaving          
blisters        
I’ll have to          
         
forget        
         
when          
I wake.