tonight, tonight

I am wedded to this seat at the kitchen counter. The phone is next to me, still warm from our conversation. I am ever more aware of this way I have come to close the night with you, this easy slip into softness, like the turn-down of a hotel's bedsheets. But tonight, tonight, I don't want to sleep. I want to stay awake and listen to your breathing. I want to lay a hand on your skin and feel the rise and fall of your body. I want to memorize the way your eyelashes move while you're dreaming. I don't want to miss a thing.