Sometimes I have to leave you,
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:
"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.