I fell asleep in my collared shirt, after you left. I buttoned it all the way up for you even though it was hot as hell and my nerves were going off like firecrackers when you looked at me and smiled that soft smile of yours and didn't say a word even though I heard a million, like "This movie looks good" and "Did I leave my shirt at your house the other day?"
I had to unbutton a little once you left, just enough that I wouldn't choke on my feelings while I slept. They get at me like tendrils, like the short locks of your hair.
I tried to sleep but kept remembering how we washed dishes together, how I was scrubbing away at a burnt pan and you kept giggling because I was belting "Here Comes Your Man" along with Black Francis. How I had to hold your hand to pull you off the couch and convince you to come lay down with me, how we laid on opposite ends of the bed once we finally made it to my room, but kept slowly getting closer under the guise of needing a pillow or readjusting.
I remember tugging my collar when you looked at me and I looked back, when everything was quiet. You looked at me and the soft smile on the edges of your eyes was reassuring me that I was doing a good job, this anxious, dark-humored, gay mess was exactly what you wanted.
"Button up and hold my hand," your eyes said.
