Yes, I should cease doing that. Over-analysis. I should cease worrying about the infinite possibilities that the fluctuations in your voice carry. I should cease replaying our previous conversations, re-assessing where I might possibly have left an error.
I should cease reviewing these hundred ways of rectification for dummies, or rehearsing all these morning greetings. Maybe I should just pull the blanket up, cover us both, watch you sleep and trace your temples, follow the constellations on your chest. Or canoodle.
I’ve never watched anyone this way. You know I’m easily bored. But you, for you I will do it. Write verses, even. Recite lovely poems in low voice. Run my fingers through your hair. Hold you. Hold you close. Hold you closer.
Maybe I’ll wake you up and ask you to drive me around. Windows down, music blaring. We’ll play Beatles. Or Firehouse. Or The Smith. Classic rock bands. We’ll sing and live our lives and make this world adore us.
I would love this.
And I would do this. I’d like to do this. It is almost 4 in the morning and I’m wishing, really really hard, I’m wishing for something to fall that will enable me to love you again.
Until then, I’ll wallow in my over-analysis. You don’t know this, but this, too, is smashing my defective heart. And believe me, darling, you don’t want it broken. It will cut you. You will bleed to death.
So tonight allow me to save you. Let me leave you unscathed.