More magnetic poetry! 'you haven't told me your dreams' this time. Fairly obvious, I think.
My writing is deteriorating slowly. I think it's because people rarely SHUT THE FUCK UP in this class. It really pisses me off that people can't stay quiet for more than three minutes at a time unless they're threatened by the teacher.
Disclaimer: I kinda wish I did own it sometimes, you know? But I don't, and as far as I know, you don't either.
Five hundred words: Lysis
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It's late. I think it's three in the morning, but I don't want to find my glasses and look at the clock. I'm too comfortable, curled in a loose ball on my left side with his heavy arm draped over my ribs, his breath on the back of my neck, his chest firm against my back, expanding and sinking in coincidence with the warmth at my nape. Occasionally, he makes little sleepy noises and clutches at the old t-shirt I wear to bed or trails callused fingertips low over the waistband of my sweatpants, but he doesn't wake up. I turn onto my right side to face him, and he pulls me closer in his sleep, tucking me into the hollow made by his neck and shoulder.
It's late, but I can't sleep. I don't really want to, not really, even though I'm exhausted. His face, usually pretty much devoid of expression, looks relaxed and a little worried. His eyebrows are drawn slightly together; his lips are pursed; as I watch, his eyes draw up into a pained squint. I put a hand on his chest. His face loosens again, and nubby fingernails scratch at my back before he sighs with a gentle keening noise. He smiles slightly, only for a moment, and then it disappears, but it makes me smile, too.
It's late, and I'm dozing, on the border between sleep and wakefulness, when he twitches violently. I'm awake in a moment, my eyes wide open even though things are blurry without my glasses. With flailing that's more than a little scary, he thrashes away from me, taking the bedclothes with him, and lets out a groan like an animal in pain. I touch his shoulder, and he flinches away. He's panting now, laying on his back, chest heaving with every breath. His face is screwed up tightly, and I feel like I'm going to hear the bones in his face begin to creak any time now. I scream for him to wake up, shake him by the shoulder, and he comes to with a cry and a start. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back with one of his hands fisted in the collar of my shirt and the other drawn up to slug me, my lower body pinned by his. I keep still. This happens often enough that I know not to aggravate him. Realization dawns in his eyes, and he lets me go and sits back on his heels. He apologizes and gathers me in his arms, kissing the top of my head as I listen to his heart slow. Ne, Jean, what was your dream about? He doesn't answer, just smiles sadly like he always does and lies back down, taking me with him. I know he's not going to discuss it, and he's not going to sleep until at least dawn, but I can't stay up anymore. I'm falling asleep.
I'm falling asleep, and you still haven't told me your dreams.