215 - Smell

I had a dream about you the other day.

In a distant and near future, I return to Montreal after having let you go, attached to a nameless meaningless fling, abruptly halting conversations to text, avoiding your gaze from across the table as we sit and chatter with friends. We smile, we chat, we pretend being around one another isn't as hard as it surprisingly is. When the party winds up, we seem to tire simultaneously, and your roommate gets tipsy.
We help her home. I help. I don't have to, but I do. I hold her up with a surprisingly strong arm, bring her into your place, and we tuck her into bed with water, remove her boots.
It's late.
You tell me to stay, and we both know you shouldn't, and we definitely know I shouldn't say yes. Which I do. Of course I do. It surprises neither of us.
For the third or fourth time ever, you set up the couch for me, and I approach you from behind, unknowing how to not be near you, wanting so badly to brush my lips against your shoulder, the bottom of your neck, up  up up to the whispers of hair beside your small ears. Breathe into you, breathe you in. Instead, you turn around and nearly collide noses with me, whisper a calm apology, a goodnight, and leave.

In the night I lay awake not even close to sleepy, wondering and knowing
feeling
knowing
knowing you aren't asleep either.

I gather courage I find in my coat pocket and get up, walk across the living room, and open your door. Your bedroom is dark, but I can see your figure getting up from your bed and looking at me as I stand in your doorway. We gaze at one another, and I can hear all the words you want to say, hoping you can hear all of mine. You open your covers with your left hand. I close the door, and we feel it's a mistake, but I don't care. I don't care, and I walk over to you, wrap around the bed and get into your bed on your left. And you lay down over my extended arm, and I pull you in so close, and you shift so close to my chest, your hand on me, and I feel your heartbeat in mine.