We sit. His back pressed against mine. His scarred skin flush against the thin fabric of my shirt. His head is bowed, and his snores are light. He is warm against me.
Late into the night, we sit like this. Passing a tepid cup of coffee between us. He drinks from one side. I from the other.
Sometimes we break, and we are parted. But never far from touch. We step outside into the grass, looking into the night sky. Fingers brush as a burning stick is passed back and forth.
But we always come back, smoke in our lungs, to our pads of paper and pens. He writes in blue, I in red. And we take up space again on the couch.
His back against mine, his head leans back as he looks to the ceiling. Brown eyes tired but filled with thought.
I turn my head, I smile and pass him a scrap of paper. He brushes my cheek with his fingers before righting himself and getting back to work.
Through all the years and all the tears he is my best friend. Through heaven and hell we’ve trampled, and still we stand together.
It’s times like these, the quiet times, when pens scratch paper, that I’m reminded that I’m not alone. Because we’ll always be alone together.
His head droops forward, and the night wears on. My own eyes start to close.
And still with backs pressed together, here we will always sit.