All the patterns I made on your back with my fingertips were in small, horizontal figure-eights.

Because I could have laid there forever.

With the curls of your hair brushing my eye lids, my lips in the crook of your neck, breathing in rhythm, your secrets hidden, and my heart on my sleeve.

But you’ll never know this. Any of it.

And I didn’t even realize how much this meant to me, until I discovered it meant nothing to you.