Our bed is too big without you in it,
I lie here uncomfortable, uneasy.
I feel like I’m hovering a few centimetres above, not quite resting, or at peace.
My eyes are closed but I feel like I’m staring into space. Waiting for something, but nothing.
I’m not quite myself here without you, beside me, half shut eyes, open mouth, breathing deep, consuming me with your presence.
You don’t even know it but I’m safe here, like this.
With you, in our bed.
I can starfish and touch all four corners when you’re gone but I’d happily take just the one.
I can roll myself up three times in our blanket but I’d gladly sleep with none.
I need you here, beside me.
In our bed.
Our bed is a battle ground.
Our daughter climbs in, tossing and turning, limbs nudging and poking, bright eyes glowing, forcing one of us to admit defeat and raise the white flag.
When you’re gone I fight with myself. And lose every time.
Our bed is too lonely when you’re gone.
I need you here. Beside me. In our bed.