I watch you curl and cover your face with your soft, foamy comforter.
You hold on to it with such gentle intensity. As if hanging on for dear life, as if you love it like the last man you slept with. Your lips break into what seems an ecstatic smile, and the cold air periodically lifts a wisp of your hair from your face.
I indulge at the sight of how the strands stroke your pink cheeks.
You’re deeply asleep, because the sound of the shutter does not ruffle you, not even one bit. You don’t seem to mind that in my obsession of you, I take a load of photos of your hair, your eyes, your lips and your fingertips.
You don’t know how I slowly fill my walls with images of your sleeping smile. You don’t know how I keep them in my mind, remembering as much details as memory holds.
You don’t know how you make my dreams right by being there.
You don’t know anything at all.
Because you don’t even know that I sneak up to your room to watch you.
To get you where I want you.