sleep.

I rolled over to him and gently grabbed his shoulders, shaking them slightly.  "Wake up," I said, "please wake up."  Still very much asleep, he grumbled, "What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong," I said, "but I just need you to hold me.  It's one of those nights.  Please hold me."  Slowly I saw my words register in his mind and he stretched out his arm, his opening move to begin his attempt to appease me.  But we didn't fit.  No matter how we tried, how we twisted and turned, what is normally easy and effortless and innate for us -- that night was impossible.  Each position was uncomfortable.  We both knew it.  Still, he kept trying.  I didn't want him to stop trying, but I knew that if either of us were to have any sleep that night, I would have to give up my request.  "It's not working," I said, "but thanks."  Then I rolled to my side of the bed.

But I didn't sleep.

More and more these days, a comfortable sleep is becoming difficult to obtain.  Some people may prefer to be apart when sleeping, but not me. I dislike it.  I hate feeling as though I am sleeping alone when I'm not.  If I wanted that, I would sleep alone.  What weighs on me more is the fact that we weren't always like this.

We used to sleep tangled in each other, a morass of twisted limbs.  I used to sleep however the hell I wanted, typically with half my legs on him, half on whatever else I wanted.  I would find myself not only breathing air, but his skin, with each inhale -- my face was so often closely pressed somewhere against his body.  It's hardly like that these days.  Our current ritual is to say good night then roll to our respective sides of the bed, backs to each other.  And when we are deep in our sleep, we start to become more like foes than friends.  The battle for the blanket ensues, my efforts to snuggle are rebuffed, and there are moments when I get so annoyed by how he sleeps that I have to elbow him (in the back, no less!) just to get his attention, to tell him to stop twitching, or to move back to his side of the bed, or to get off the blanket so that I can use it, too.  It drives me crazy.

Things have gotten worse.  Now he voluntarily sleeps on the couch some nights, and other nights, I do.  I don't even know why, not really, except sometimes it seems as though we simply can't stand to share the same air with one another.  It's uncomfortable.   Most days nowadays, the only nights that are really great are the ones where I forget that I used to prefer sleeping beside him.  

I miss him, immensely.  I miss us even more.   But I feel trapped in that terrible place where you realize that you can't turn back, but you don't know how to move forward, either.  A little bit stuck, hoping for strength, patience, and love to help you figure it out.   

Anyhow.  I'm tired.  I just want to sleep the way we used to.