My head is thick and I can’t quite open my eyes all the way, like my body knows that it’s not supposed to be here in this place in this time. The air is cold in that middle of the night way, it can only feel this way when the sun’s been asleep for this long. There’s a place in our bed that’s still warm and I know I will have to warm it up again when I go back, but I know to wait until my eyes will barely open at all anymore before I go back. The act of finding just the right way to lay in the warm indention in my bed will wake me up again, until I am in just-the-right-spot.
A yawn, the big kind that fills your whole body and your ears and your eyes, and I know it’s close. I wonder whether I should go to him, curl my body against his, but I know that the idea of his arms is nicer than the reality, that his sweet embrace is actually rather hard to get comfortable in, when I’m trying to sleep and not “sleep” with him. There is always the morning for that sort of sleep anyway, when we both doze in and out after I slide under his blanket, the blanket I am only ever under when I want to feel his skin. if I just want to sleep and be warm, I have my own blanket and my half of our wide ocean of king size bed.
Another big delicious yawn and I know I will leave him be until morning, though he’ll probably wake up when I clumsily crawl back up the bed searching for my pillows, and he’ll probably ask me if I feel better and I’ll say yes and the benadryl made me sleepy and I’ll maybe move towards him, forgetting in the dark and the sweetness that I meant to stay on my side of the bed, and I’ll lay on his arm until I remember that it hurts my neck to stay that way for long, hurts my back to arch (even gently) against him and I will never fall asleep, have never fallen asleep that way.
And I’ll kiss him goodnight and go back across the continental divide of our blankets and pillows and tell him I’ll sail back in the morning.