She’s somewhere not with me right now, not tonight. Her voice isn’t on the other end of the line; not the raspy sound of her drawing a deep breath; not the snuffles as she holds back the looming sleepiness; not the comfort of being fully known to another soul.
She’s not here with me right now and I can’t sleep. I suppose this is the result of doing without thinking, of letting a habit and a routine set in, to draw furrows in the connections your brain and your body make to one another, by allowing the interdiction between the two to be driven by her–
To be her.
I can’t sleep. I miss her.
The thing is, the struggle you see, is that she is not mine to miss (and me, I am not hers). We have had this conversation, more than once, not less than thrice, and will have it again and again until we sort out the loggerheads of her straightness and my fey; of our sexual unsuitability despite the emotional resonance and comfort; of the fact that we are playing a game of layaway with one another, we are settling — no, indulging — and avoiding the facts of life.
The facts of our lives.
(I can’t sleep. I miss her and her voice and her blithe remarks and the soft breaths she huffs out as she struggles against Morpheus and he wins, he wins against us both, and we accept the fall only to wake not less than six hours later to rouse each other to our day’s requirements.)
This struggle, yes, this struggle, not one of my own making, not one of my choice. We crept up on one another, unsuspecting and indelicate in our eventual mutual co-option of each other.
I can’t sleep. I miss her. She’s away for only three days and just the first night feels like an eternity. I am addict without her fix; I am made weak without my–
I don’t even know what she is. Not my girlfriend. Not my lover. Not my wife. No, she’s just…she’s just mine, and I miss her, and I can’t sleep without her.