My Eyes They Despise You for Who I Am

I wake in the gloom of pre-dawn, with his breath in my hair and his arms clutched tight around my waist, and every time he breathes in, his stomach moves against my back in the most comforting rhythm I’ve ever known. He’s still asleep. I know he is, because he hasn’t let me go yet. My heart is beating painfully in my chest, so that I know I’m still alive, and I haven’t died and gone to heaven, or anything stupid like that. But still, this is a moment to commit to memory.
The soft curve of his neck. The sharp line of his jaw. The slightly puckered skin of his scar. The hollow of his throat where his neck meets his chest. I want to remember it all. He’s asleep, and so I take it all in, committing every millimetre to memory, so that even if this one day ends, I will never forget a single millimetre of him, the boy I love so dearly.
It’s funny. I wasn’t terribly attracted to brown eyes before him, yet now every pair that I see, I associate with his scar that runs from under his right eyelid to just below his nose, his beaming smile and his goofy little dimples that appear even though he hates them. Right now those eyes are covered by the thinnest of eyelids, and they are flickering as one does when they are in deep sleep. He is not dreaming, not dreaming of me, but there is no need for him to; he will see me when he wakes.
There is a soft, contented sigh, and he nuzzles his head around, trying to get deeper into the soft pillow. His hand on my hip contracts and he starts to trace slow circles in his sleep. He is not yet awake, but not far off. When he wakes, the illusion shatters. When he wakes, he is mine no longer.