There are two types of people in this world: those that sleep and those that don’t.
You can always tell the former; they have the stench of contentment along them, the lassitude of hours of uninterrupted rest. It wafts about them, this perfumed cloud of sleepy smoke, tantalizing and always, always just outside of my reach.
She is a sleeper.
Our pillow talk always fades swiftly into the quiet as her eyes close and in less than sixty seconds her breathing evens out, deep and full, and I sense the consciousness drifting into the aether as her body goes lax in my arms. I touch the nape of her neck, slightly push the point of her shoulder, and she turns so easily to give me her back, naked and smooth and lush, and the trailing of my fingers along its lengths only soothes her to a deeper rest, speeds her to the depth of dreams, and leaves me, silent and intoxicated.
She draws me in, tugs someplace deep in my soul, and it settles me, keeps me tethered to her, and pulls me down into sleep with her. My eyes always blink slowly shut, not exhausted but content, and I find myself losing hours, blinking back sunlight, and burrowing deeper into a sleep I have never known.
All my life I have been one of the non-sleepers, wakeful and easily startled, used to tiny breaks and the bone-rattling crash of exhaustion taking over, but never this, never this easiness, never this soft slalom into sweet, soul-restoring bliss.
She is a sleeper and she has turned me into one; I am terrified; I am in awe–
I have been transformed. The world is different, it is all so very different.
I can’t go back again.