"I was thinking... maybe you could come over tonight. You're going to be here first thing in the morning anyhow. We could get some dinner, make our shopping list, talk life, cuddle, and go to sleep."

"I thought of that too."

"And..?"

"I think it would fuck with both our heads."

"I think I'd be okay. We cuddled the other night, it was weird at first, but we settled in. It was okay. We controlled, we coped. I thought that was a good sign."

His short chuckle.

"You cuddle like the ocean, V."

"What..? Oh."

He refers to my unconscious movements, the full-body writhe, seeking to fill every space between us, seeking to move skin apart until we connect completely. The curl that starts at the top of my shoulders and moves down my spine like a snake parting grass, shoulder blades, ribcage, lower back, ass, thighs, calves scissoring around calves, ankles linking together, feet arching to meet their male half, top to bottom, and when this is done, the neck twists to look over the shoulder, to place cheek to lips, to breathe within the same air.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

And then we have to shift positions, we have to roll, him on top in frustration knowing the only way he's going to stop me from doing that is to pin me. He won't get angry because he knows I'm not doing it on purpose, knows from night upon night spent together that I do this whether or not I'm awake. Knows I do this without thought, without motive, just as when we kiss, my tongue darts out the half-second ahead of lips meeting, a swipe, a search, an identifier, taking the lay of the land, relaying information of taste, texture, placement, moisturisizing and lubricating for the perfect lip synchronicity that follows.

"You cuddle like the ocean, V. And I cuddle like the river."

His powerful moves. His strong arms, tossing me around in the current of his affection. I have no say in positioning unless he allows it. His body wraps around mine, pins mine, throws mine. He batters me with his lust.

"I know, I know I do. I know you do. I was just... hoping that... one day, you know, we'd be able to sleep in the same bed again. Cuddle. Platonically."

"I don't think so, V. We're too sexual."

My mind searches back to the last night we slept in the same bed. Dinner at Kitchen 24 off of Sunset Boulevard. An awkward evening where something was off, but I was too tired to articulate it.

Was that the last time? The last time ever? Was the experience of sharing a bed with him going to forever remain in the past, never to be revisisted?

We talk, we love. I search the aisles of a home decorating store for a particular item.

In the morning, he wakes me with a five minute warning of arrival call.

I dash out of bed, changing into something a bit more clinging than an oversized shirt and sweatpants. Brush my hair, my teeth, wash my face, casually saunter down the hallway to open the gate when he arrives.

His warm chest meets mine, tendrils of searching heat restart my cold-morning heart.

He is the melody to my lyrics.

He strums the strings of my core,
The echoing chords of the sponges of my spine,
Resonating beast-heart,
He plays his melody until I sing.