so how'd we get like this, d'you think?

It's ten to seven on a Sunday evening.
You're on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, my head in your lap.
And that's all there is.

We could be doing things, we could;
Watching telly or reading or talking about what we ought to have for dinner.
Except we're not.
We're just on the couch, not saying anything. And I don't know about you, but I'm not even thinking anything either.

I curl and uncurl my toes, reach up and thread my fingers through yours, resting on my tummy.
The CD finishes its last track and whirs to a stop. The remote for the CD player is a mere inch and a half from where our fingers are laced.
Neither of us make an attempt to move, to start up the CD again, or load a new one in.
Neither of us make an attempt to move, period.


And we stay like that, just you and me.
Doing absolutely nothing in the world. Not even pretending, not even attempting to pretend to be doing something.
Just absolutely nothing.

I reach up, run my finger along your jawline. Your eyes meet mine then,
And you smile, just the tiniest tiny bit.

And I think,
I could do this for the longest time.
And I think,
There isn't anything else I'd like more than this.
And I think,
Oh my word, this is perfect.
This is completely and utterly perfect.


And I think,
I am impossibly in love with you