Her hand on my neck

I struggled the other night.

Tossed and turned in my bed, fluffed my pillows, kicked at my blankets as they wrapped around my feet. I could not find a restful space; I could not stop the traffic in my brain.

Like a fussy baby, I was unable to soothe myself, and all I wanted, needed really, was a hand – her hand – on my neck. Or between my shoulder blades, pressing into the center of my latissimus dorsi, grounding me to the bed.

I twisted, seeking a touch that would not come. The ghost-like thought of it was an empty tease, less relief and more frustration.

Why is it that need and loss feel like the same thing in the tiny hours between our daily death and rebirth? Why is it that deep in the stilled night I cannot distinguish between what is real, what is memory, and what will be?

I need (miss) her hand on my neck, that simple touch of possessive peace.
I miss (need) her hand on my neck, that simple touch that reminds me that I exist.