Staying like this. That's what it is.
Your profile pressed to the pillow, his chin pressing down
on your temple. Your nose buried in soft, suffocating locks,
and your lips glued to his pulse.
Counting his heartbeats, counting the minutes, counting
sheep. Counting tiny droplets of liquid drip drip dripping
down the tube. Knowing that you'll never fall asleep this
way. Knowing that you probably won't ever be able to sleep
again without it.
Labored breathing catches yours. In between, the drops sound
heavier, gloomier.
Waiting. All there's left to do is wait. Like there's all
the time in the fucking world. Well, there isn't. And now,
every beat is a second you're not living. Every drop is a
whole lifetime wasting away. GOD! Even the sheep are having
more fun than you!
This wasn't like that, up until not too long ago. Life was
all about you, and you were all about living. Now it's about
not dying. Not letting him die. Everything changed the day
he came home with the news, and it only kept spiraling out
of your hands thereafter.
One thing remained, though. A kiss goodnight before he
drifts to sleep, and his whispered "I love you", before his
chin settles on your cheek and you bury your face in his
warmth for the night. You used to roll over and settle down
again, only minutes after he'd fallen asleep, but now you
haven't got the heart. So you just lie awake and count
whatever it is you haven't yet, and focus on adding
everything together, because nothing else adds up. Numbers
always made sense to you, and you really need something to
make sense.
And you wonder, how this "love" thing works. How, with all
that changed, it's the one thing that hasn't, and never
will. And you desperately try to find it. To hold on to it.

And you know. You know that it's just this. Being here,
wearing this stupid costume and the fucking mask when it's
way past Halloween. It's counting every little thing in
hearing range, because you just can't bear to open your
eyes, and it's counting on God that he still has one last
favor in store for you, and that he won't let you down. Not
this time.
It's lying with your profile pressed against the pillow,
tears searing trails into your cheeks, whispering promises
you can't keep.
It's pretending you can.