sleeping

In the last few moments of consciousness, laying down in the dark, when I no longer notice how my body feels underneath the comforter, nor the slowed pace and gradual shallowness of my breath, I think of you.

I imagine your eyes and your lips. I remember their curves; I trace them with my mind. This only lasts a few seconds, but remains a constant habit of mine - and one I'm desperate to break.

Why does it feel different when I see you, than when I think about you? Do you, in manifestations of lips and eyes, only exist in my mind?

How is it that I remember the dimensions of your angles, and have memorized their meanings with precision? Each coordinate is matched in my mind as the vacancy their configurations display. Each coordinate corresponds to various sharp feelings that I feel when around you. With an exhale a feeling of doubt; an inhale, the elation of hope; furrowed brows and the sharp hints of isolation. Each of these and more are tied to thin, invisible strings which pull and direct me with your sways and direction. They leave me tired and worn. I want to sleep.

But I wonder, in the last few moments of consciousness, are they telling? Is it you that I see? If I imagine your eyes and your lips, does it mean I'm looking for you, or someone just like you? Someone who wants how you didn't, is willing how you weren't, and will risk for me what I wanted to risk for you.

Would you let me know?