When you're asleep, I stare at the slightly fitful expression on your face and I realize that your harsh words are a front. That you care. That it's not me who makes you overly sharp or blunt.

          But it's me who sparks the memory of what makes you toss and turn at night, although you'd rather die than admit to your demons. Whoever, whatever those demons are.

          One night I heard you whimper the name 'Yuki', and the utter pain and devotion in the syllable caused my heart to ache. That was the night before I saw you cry for the first time. And God, that really put things into perspective for me. The nights in your bed are just full of these depressing realizations. Sometimes I wish we could just stay up making love all night so I wouldn't have to think...wouldn't have to fight off the feeling that I'm hitting a brick wall that is too high, too smooth to climb.

          The closer I become to you, the more pain I see evident in your eyes. The closer we grow together, the farther apart you seem. And it breaks my heart completely, each time I watch you fall asleep, when you become victim to the thoughts that can only haunt you at night without reprieve. I want to hold you. But I fear that my concern for you will only cause you to distance yourself even more.

          So here I lie with a sad little smile, my hand resting on a little crevice between your neck and collarbone, my eyes staring hard into your chiseled features. And I'm trying desperately not to cry.

          If you love him, the little nagging voice chides in my head, you know what you have to do.

          The past few hours were perfect--from the foreplay to the climax. You even held me as you fell asleep, which only happens on rare occasions. God. Can I do this? I have to. I need to, for your sake. Aren't I the typical stoic lover, sacrificing my happiness for yours. Just as contrived as those shitty love dramas we seem to catch on the television. I remember sitting on the couch with you, watching the overdramatic scene unfold as you lit up your cigarette with a bored expression on your face.

          When we're together like that--where you watch television or spend time with me and act as if it's always been that way--I love you most. I love you.

          Only after my hand leaves the warmth of your neck and the remembrance of your embrace do I allow myself to smile bitterly while willing my tears back. Yes, yes, I love you. That seems to be the problem, doesn't it? I can't even fucking leave you for your sake, no matter how hard I try. Part of me stubbornly thinks that something drew us to each other for a reason--that I can do good for you. The rest of me is selfish and wants you to myself always. I'm sorry. I know someday I'll be the death of you.

          And so, tonight I stay with you again. But as I pull the sheets up to cover my naked torso, I can't help but feel even more helpless than when I started.

          Tomorrow night...tomorrow night I'll leave you. A constant mantra I repeat in futility.

          My last conscious image before I fall asleep is of your tired, irritated expression as you pull me closer into your arms.