That Guy

I try to imagine you as the guy who looks at me and thinks I’m stunning, who can’t help brushing the hair from my face just to have an excuse to touch me.

The guy who puts his arms around me not because he’s trying to get in my pants but to comfort me, who lets me rest my head on his chest while he rubs my back and strokes my hair.

I close my eyes and see you sitting in a chair in the living room, holding your hand out to me when I walk past to go to the bathroom or the kitchen or the bedroom, because you just can’t let me walk by without touching me.

I want you to be the guy who falls asleep with your legs tangled up with mine and one hand on my stomach as if to make sure I’m not going anywhere, to make sure I’ll be there when you wake up.

And then I remember you are that guy. Just not all the time.