It's almost three and you've taken the whole blanket again. You always do this — start the night politely on your half and end up diagonal, one foot off the edge, like you're trying to leave but changed your mind. I'm not going to wake you. I just lie here in the part of the dark that's still warm from you and listen to the small sounds you make.
I used to think love would feel bigger than this. Louder. When I was younger I wanted the version with airports and rain. What I got was your breathing, slow and a little uneven, and the way you reach for me without waking when I get up for water.
Tonight I counted the things I'd miss if this stopped. I stopped counting at the sound of you turning over. There's one of them I've never told you, even now, with you asleep and unable to hear it.