the couch

"can i sleep with you tonight?" 
the bluish-green glow from the forgotten tv illuminates my darkened figure, cradled in a sound system. it takes a while before your eyes adjust, before you notice it was me. shaking your head out of the afghan draping your body. half asleep you motion for me to just get under the covers, your brain too scrambled to even connect the sentences, too weary to dream straight.
we lay together in the living room, where you have slept as long as i could remember, telling me because he snores too loud. i knew there had to be more to it, like this rerun of cheers keeping me from dreams of a school that i could better understand. there had to be more to the witty jokes of bar stools talking about sports and women, always there while you are on the couch.
your arm glides over my tshirt shoulders as i shy my eyes away from the screen and into your chest. the clicker fell out of your hand to the crumb carpeted floor radiating a  familiar touch that calms my anxious incineration. forgetting i'll have to face others in the morning until i dress for the snow outside to get there. the uncertainties of tomorrow weigh on my young mind with black colors as we drift together through the darkness like mother, like son.