I lie there. The overstuffed blanket cascading
over my tangled limbs and torso.
My eyes are shut, the corners of my mouth raised
just slightly, revealing my feeling of content.
I feel the unique touch of fingertips against my skin.
So easily identified by the swirling spirals and ridges
that only he has, his fingertips. They brush lightly against
my arms, sending feelings of warmth throughout my body.
I feel the hot sticky cloud of his breath against my neck,
sending me sinking farther into this trance and even more
into the mattress in which we’re on.
I feel his presence, his body, lie next to me in the most
innocent way possible, purely with the purpose of sleep.

My eyes jolt open.

There is no boy, with the unique fingerprint and warm
comforting breaths beside me.
There is no “him”. There is no one at all.
I lie there, alone, realizing my feeling of content was
merely just an emotion brought on by a figment of
my imagination.
And with this, I am scared, as if I will never be content
with something real at all.