our sleeping patterns collide.

by ~paperheartsyndrome, Sep 13, 2009, 6:41:49 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction

I wake up tired.
I wake up tired and it's afternoon again.
I wake up tired and I am alone.

It's like every night i fall asleep with you on my mind, and I quickly sort through my thoughts leaving the prettiest ones on top so I can try them on in the morning. So everyday, I wake up and try on being in love with you. Except every morning, it's three inches too big or a centimeter and a half too small or it's brushing my kneecaps like it's too long. But I wear it anyways, since I'm used to being a shade left of ordinary or two steps past crazy. I'm used to wearing love and I'm used to you.

I'm used to falling asleep next to you and waking up alone.

___

You call me.
You call me adorable and I like it.
You call me your own and it feels like a fairytale.

We spend the weekends curled up on iced lakes like mirrors, scratching our stories into their frozen surfaces, and you write about adventures you'll never have and places you'll never go with a girl I wish I could always be. And I write about you with your soft-glowing skin and glittering strands of hair that lie awkwardly against your forehead. I write like it's a fairytale. I write like the phone will always ring and it will always be you. I write like we're in love.

I write that I'm falling asleep alone and waking up next to you.

___

I lie.
I lie in seas of blankets and feel like I'm drowning.
I lie next to you and for the first time, it feels right.

Maybe we're sleeping on opposite edges of the bed afraid to get too close -- afraid that our bones won't fit right or our lips won't lock and we won't stay together. So we lay with space between us but with our elbows knocking together just three inches from our hearts. We sleep like this since I'm afraid of what would happen if there weren't layers and excuses between us. So I wrap myself in your sheets and stare at the ceiling since all I want to do is stare at you. You're always asking me what I'm really thinking, and I lie. I tell you I'm thinking of going home. I tell you I'm in love with the boy that lives down the road or that sometimes, I feel like the stars are blinking at me. You ask me what I'm thinking and this time I tell you the truth.

I tell you that I'm thinking of falling asleep and waking up next to you.