My bookcase is about to fall, leaning like that famous tower, except not so glorious. A build-it-yourself cheapo that groans and moans and complains with the weight of too many books. With one push it would topple over onto the bed. Falling right down onto where we lay. My arm is around you, your head on my shoulder. You've fallen asleep and the world is perfect. I'm trapped underneath you. And I dare not move for fear that you wake. But it's good that you've fallen asleep. This way I don't have to move and I'd need no excuse to stay.
The mattress has no frame. It just lays on the floor. And the anchorperson on t.v. is talking about some foreign war. The faint voices grow dimmer and dimmer, becoming white noise to back up your steady breathing. I give you a small squeeze and lay down my head. Closing my eyes I smile. Because I know it'll only be a few hours until I talk to you again.