I love sleeping next to you.
I love listening to your breathing and realizing that at some point, our breaths became one, in sync with the other’s lungs.
I love feeling you twitch just slightly as you fall asleep; a toe against mine, a brief suggestion of a shrug, a small frown against my head.
I love rolling over to cuddle against your back in the late morning after we have both had and forgotten our nightmares.
I love sleeping next to you. Now, whenever you are not there, I lay in the silence, in the stillness, in the emptiness, and I have to force my eyes to close and convince sleep to come anyway.
And in the morning, when I wake up to a vast sea of sheets and space and loneliness, I remember my nightmares.