I need you to stay, and the urge to beg you to stop getting dressed swells to a lump in my throat.  Alas, my cowardice quells my protestations. 

Feebly, unconvincingly, I mirror the consolatory smile you shoot over your shoulder. My nakedness now feels foolish, shameful, as you bend to tie your shoes. 

I trace a finger along the sliver of moonlight that marks your back. You hardly know me, but I need you to stay.

From nowhere, my fingers close and I pull you to me, pressing my despairing lips to yours, begging with a kiss.

“Don’t go.”