Sheets

I tell you where my secret key is so that you can come into my bed at 2 a.m. when I am already asleep.

You are tired of sitting in the library, and I am tired of sleeping alone.

You let yourself in and turn off the porch light like I ask you to and crawl under my sheets.

We don’t really talk.

We just hold each other in the darkness because it is what we need.

I won’t ever love you in that crazy sort of way,

but you are keeping me warm on these cold, fall nights.

You smell so nice,

your skin so warm,

and you are so kind that I can’t help but tell you where my secret key is.

Between the distance of our pillows sits an understanding of respect and admiration,

but we are miles apart.

I hope you feel the same,

that we will never be.

There is no more friction.

I do not get butterflies when I see your texts.

That excitement is reserved for email only,

from someone that is not you,

but shares your same name.

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