Thoughts that are late-night visitors

I close my eyes.

I can feel her there, warm against me. I can feel her breathing.

There is nothing between us. Nothing to separate her from me or me from her, except consciousness. She is asleep, I lie awake. She doesn’t even know I am staring into the abyss of silence. She doesn’t know I lie awake, missing her while she travels in another realm.

I am wishing she was awake. I would probably say nothing, and so, it might make no difference. But I am wishing she was awake. I am wishing I could speak to her with a gentle caress, but she is not there to hear it. Her warmth tells me she is here with me. But it lies – she is gone, she sleeps, she dreams, she travels.

And yet, I would not wake her for the world. I hold her, I know she is here, that is enough. It must be enough.

How fickle the heart is; it tears the mind in two. My love would wake her and it would let her sleep – it does not do to be in love.

Does she know? Does she know what it does to me? She probably does… but then, she would not be so cruel as to leave me alone beside her.

I am not alone.

For I can feel her there, warm against me.

I can feel her skin, it burns. It is warm against my arm, wrapped around her. I hold her, because she is my shield against myself.

Nothing between us.

I feel her breathe.

She is not mine, but I ache to protect her. She restores my humanity. She reminds me. Flutters into my thoughts when I am meant to be focused. I smile, because I am not hers, but she protects me – from me.

I have no faith without her. I have no fear with her. I can be a devil or an angel.

I can be broken, and it will not matter, because I am me, and she loves me.

I open my eyes, and she is not here.

The world retracts.

I cannot breathe.

I feel ill. A sense of dizzy disgust settles, like guilt in a person’s soul.

Then I remember. It is a lie, a construct of my tired mind. It is easier, so much easier to forget. Easier to believe the lie, than remember the truth.

There is nobody here. Not even me. I am but a fraction of who I used to be.

Yet still, I can be a devil or an angel. I can be broken. And it will not matter, because it was she who broke me.

I cower in the darkness. Like a child who just broke a mirror, I am holding the pieces of what is left, wondering helplessly how to fix it. And I clench my fist around a shard, as if wishing it could cut.

I can feel no one there, warm against me. I can feel no one breathing.

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