The space between

I woke up from strange dreams last night, laying on my back. My eyes slid from imaginary sunspots on the ceiling to you, laying on your side, curled tight into me. My brain was a fog rolling in from the Sandman's world. I felt heavy; lethargic, direly confused at being thrown from imaginary avalanches and flooded motor homes directly into your bed, melatonin weighing on my eyelids. Looked down to my chest and saw my hand laying across it. Tried to move it, brain straining. I felt as if my hand had moved but there it lay. I shifted slightly, and there was my hand, behind the one I'd been trying to move. Behind yours. I must be really out of it, I thought. But then, sometimes I can hardly tell where one of us stops and the other one starts, anyway. Sometimes there are no lines between us. If you share your hands, your soft skin, your smile (sometimes purely joyful, sometimes embarrassed, or shy, or a million other feelings), if you share your messy hair, and your grumpiness in the morning, and the right side of your bed (yours is the left), if you share playstation Player 2, and eggs only fried in olive oil, and grapefruit juice that isn't pasteurized, and shoes with the backs broken down, if you share lost socks and share the only two socks we have between us, if you share diner breakfasts and rocks by the river that are perfect for laying on, and the crash of the ocean, and the slight awkwardness of hotel rooms, and the sighs that come from the first touch after having waited too long, and if you share netflix marathons and pints of beer and silly mobile phone games and people being creepy at the gym and a million hugs and kisses and a million mornings waking up to your face and a million cups of coffee, and if you would only share all of those things, I would share with you my heart. But we both already did those things.