Arms of a Patient Lover

some of my prose poetry gibberish.

The sheets were ice cold (as things that remain untouched for some time often seem to be) but began to warm up to me--to me!--as they were certain to do for any touch other than mine. Still, undeserving fingers clutched, pleasured, at the idea that something could warm up to me.

Taken in without qualm, reservation, or expectation I feel (only slightly) as though I have cheated. My flighty heat in exchange for never-faltering comfort just didn't seem fair in the moments of now and the moments of then. 

And in that moment--my solitude weighty--I laugh and I cry. Life can be as humorous as it is cruel.

I couldn't find it in instigating the rise of his voice or the fall of her smile just to feel, nor could I find it in pondering the outcome should I have said this instead of that; Because I wish I would have said anything other than that. I couldn't find it in the monotonous routine of our lackadaisical Sundays, or in the glossy gaze of daydreaming eyes that burn as fierce as a heart could yearn.

But I found it, in the end, locked in the arms of a lover not of the flesh, of a lover that lacks a breath.

I found comfort in the arms of a patience that makes me crave permanence, long for change, and pine after authenticity of self as face is buried deep into pillow. I inhale me, all of me, and expel myself to start anew.

My patient lover, sleep.

Author's Note

i would appreciate the blissful ignorance of my grammatical mishaps, but, other than that, please have a go at reviewing whatever it is you'd like. thank you so much for reading. <3