Smoke

Sleep doesn’t come.

I somehow feel your purple, acid-washed tee against my skin

My bare legs against your thread bare comforter, wrapping around your waist

I somehow hear your shallow breath that you can rarely catch

I wonder if I rolled over and woke you

I wonder if your fingers curled on my waist and your eyes hit my own

I wonder if I hadn’t held back

And I wonder why I ever wondered.