We are not ten thousand miles apart... In fact, we are becoming closer than I though we would, skin to skin, with your warm breath on my bare shoulder. Yet, I am still guarding my heart and guarding my steps and guarding my sanity because I know that if I lose myself back again, I will lose myself for good and for a while.
You look at me and kiss the palm of my hand, and then each one of my fingers. I feel like giving in because it is better than feeling like I want to give up. Yet, I hold back because men like you are rarely an open book. Most often, men like you have secrets of your own that I almost do not want to uncover what you have got hiding in your pandora box. Though, men like you make my head go spinning, like I am still drunk from a night before.
The bell at the clock tower somewhere outside but nearby strikes noon, yet we do not move. I do not want to call a cab and go home yet. Yet, I know I have to leave and make my day off meaningful, filled with my dance classes, my futile exercises in writing and daydreaming about greatness.
Your skin feels so smooth yet rugged and masculine. Your ass looks damn good when you slowly get up and walk out of your bedroom to go find your phone. I sink my left cheek back into the heavenly pillows and sheets and close my eyes to shield them from the incoming rays of unforgiving tropical sun peeking in splices through the half-open shades.
I want to fall asleep again but I conquer my laziness and slip on some clothes and go find you. You're in the kitchen, cooking eggs in nothing but your boxers. I momentarily consider taking a picture of you just like that, blissfully unaware of my presence, and sending the candid picture to GQ magazine to brag about what it is that I am seeing right now. Take that, Ryan Reynolds.
Yet I simply stare for a few seconds and disappear back into the shadows of the hallway.
I just want to go back to your California king bed.