You know the feeling. The one that comes right after the fading butterflies, the one that hurts because you recognize the fear. The fear of losing them, the dangerous but poignant acknowledgement that you already are. A heartbeat, yours, fills your mind as they turn over to you, about a second seeming to take 10 years.
Then they're there, looking at you, nose against yours.
"What's wrong, baby?"
"Nothing!" You immediately flash the smile, the one you know too well and feels more like a spasm than an actual expression.
"Would you tell me if there was something?"
"Yes!" No. I couldn't. Right? That'd mean we'd fight again, that'd mean I'd get closer to losing you. You're my best friend, I couldn't survive without you - I wouldn't want to try to.
But you still won't say what's wrong. Maybe it's because you feel like if everything's fine, you won't feel the fear. If you never acknowledge you could lose them, you'll never have to. Bodies intertwined, wrapped inside their arms, you'll lose yourself in their smell and their voice.
Eventually the blankets must lift and feet must totter across the carpet. There is work to be done and futures to make, lives to live outside of the pillows.

But outside of the pillows is where the problems begin, where we have to look at each other in the daylight and regret not saying anything, instead saying "I can't talk to you" instead of being quiet. Saying "I don't feel close to you" feels more like a slap in the face.
So you retreat once more, the next day, to the pillows. It won't even have to do with sex, because you won't have it. All you need are the blankets and to hide from the world. When everything else is gone, it's you two strong and warm.

I love him. But pillow talk can only save me for so long. What happens when I have to say that I need him, that I have to acknowledge what he means to me? When I have to lean on something other than the pillows?