His outstretched arm played pillow to his tired head, relieving the stress of his neck for a while. Tired eyes peered from drooping eyelids at me, smiling in wait. The arm was outstretched, but it wasn’t meant for me. I wished it was, but he wasn’t meant for me, so no gentle gesture could change the fact that we were two eye-crossed lovers, confused about our position in relation with the stars. I laid my head down below his arm. He fell asleep, and as soon as his lights went out, he rolled away from me. I looked at his light, feeble form and remembered: this was where I fit. This was my place. I would clutch him. I would hold him. I would cradle him. If only he could cradle me. I stood from the bed and sat on the floor, watching him. He rolled and flopped and slid and moved, but then he settled and slept. He didn’t need me to cradle him. He didn’t need me to hold him. He didn’t need me to clutch him. So, here I sat and forever he slept, his warm skin tucked beneath heavy sheets and many layers, my bare flesh exposed. I wouldn’t sleep that night.