Another poem about sharing a bed with Andrew, I guess

[cosmolinguist]

I curl up with the book
It'd be a nightly ritual
if I could remember to do anything
every night.
Still I like to get under the blankets
as I have before
and know I will again.

I like to sit with my knees pulled up to my chest
and grab one of the pillows from his side of the bed
all new and fluffy
because I bought them just a couple of days ago
and I think I should be rewarded
for the effort
by getting some use out of them
before he squashes them.

Even as I read I am thinking of how he'll come to bed in a minute
and turn the light off
right away
yanking me out of the book of poems.
The darkness would pull me away from anything, anyone
(my friends' faces, e-mails from my mom),
abruptly,
anything except him.
He is the only one who's still there
when the lights go out.