His body in my bed and I drift into sleep to the sound of his giggles. The Royal Tenenbaums roll on my computer and the perfectly geometrical film is the opposite of us. “She’s an angel” he says when Gwyneth as Margot takes a drag of her cigarette. Centered in frame, tennis dress on, blonde hair in black clip. “You’re an angel” he texted me the other day after my desperate try to distance myself from him.
Now his head rests against my cheek and his legs are twisted around mine under the cover. A kiss on my chin and a drag from the spliff. We always laugh but not tonight. His darkness breaks my heart and his hands on my body are looking for help. He closes his eyes as if it’s hurting and I don’t know what to say.
“Don’t read too much into it” and his arm finds its way under mine and clasp around my chest. I fall asleep in a second, but he wakes me up with anxiousness. Thinking of how it hurts, how it’s growing like a monster in his head, how it’s all falling apart. But think how it all comes together as I listen to what he says. As I touch his face because I don’t know what will help more. Saying it’s going to be okay or saying it might not. But at least trying to help. How many people are trying to help him?
I guess it’s true what they say, that the most beautiful people are the saddest people. But I make him laugh sometimes.