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Sometimes I have to leave you,
because ....
it's a suicide, of sorts. It's a melting
of some rising force inside.

But this is where I choose to sleep
with my face scrubbed clean,
on sheets so white
I never feel dirty,
your breath and arm an anchor
weighting me down
in my respectable 2-piece pajamas.

I don't want you to be different.
I don't want you to be anything else
other than what I know you are:

Passionless. Predictable.
Comfortably familiar.

"If we were both drowning, who would you save?"
You know it isn't like that...
"Which one would you save?"
Honestly? I'd let you both die.

And you know I would, don't you?
because you put your hand over mine
and entwine our fingers.

That's the closest thing I need
without feeling anything.