Across

I.
I crawled across the floor. Too drunk to stand, it was the only way to get to you. You leaned all the way back in your chair, front legs off the ground. I worried you'd fall, but even surrounded by empty bottles, you were in control. Only the slightest slur touched your lips. The kind a little boy has when he first begins to string words into sentences. I was struck by the sweetness of it as I stopped my slow crawl at your feet.

You leaned forward in your chair, letting the front legs come down with the softest thump. Hey, you whispered. Goosebumps on my arms. Hey. I tucked my legs beneath me, tilting my face toward yours. Your lips, your lips. Your face so close to mine I could count every eyelash. You were beautiful.

II.
You dropped to your knees in front of me. I thought it was a gesture of humility. You came closer and closer. Slowly. Bit by bit, until I laid on the floor beneath you, my hands in yours against the floor on each side of my head. Hey. A halo of backlight surrounded your head as you lifted up to look down at me. I smiled. Hey.

We crawled across the floor, making our way to your bedroom door. It was the slowest symphony of my life. As delicate as the tide.

III.
Your hands were not scared of the dark. The door closed; they consumed me too quickly. Hey. My eyes strained for light. You smelled like whiskey and sweat and lust and cigarettes. No, no, no. My hands were above my head again, pinned to the floor. Did you notice how our bodies matched? How the edges fit together against my will. Wait; stop; no. You closed your eyes. You were body and breath and nothing else. Hey.

I crawled across the floor.