Fickle Friction

I watch you sleep and crave to kiss you in the dark glow of your television. Your heavy breathing calls for heavy petting but I waver to wake you. Instead I plant soft kisses on your shoulders, you stir awake with gratitude but fall back to dreamland just as quickly. I need more, I'm uneasy as the week begins again but I can't fight for a love that isn't there or must be hidden between corps and corporations. We rile for the weekend but the mean time leaves me lethargic. My past haunts me telephonically as I wisp in and out of daydreams, the rendering leaves time for such leisurely luxuries. I'd have to assume it's the friction or lack there of that would turn lovers to "brothers" but such assumptions leave me cold and yearning for something less familial. I ought to let it be a lesson in you scratch my back I'll scratch yours but this despondency leaves me itching for something more.  Maybe the novelty has worn off, maybe you only like me when you're drunk and lonely, maybe I've become too needy, but mostly I've turned to over analyzing instead of living in the glorious moment of now. Each new scene, each new experience as a life builds itself 3,000 miles away from what once was home.