I never knew that sleeping on the same bed could make us feel so far apart. That even as your warmth passes over in waves under the white sheets, we are cold inside. Then again, we’re both dead. At least you are at this very instant.
You’re not the person I fell in love with. Not now. This person that lays beside me motionless on this bed we should actually call a coffin. Save for the light snores that come in a satanic rhythm and the rising and falling of your chest, I am confident you’re already dead. You do not respond to my feather light touches, nor remember I once called out your name. You do not seek out my warmth the way you so feverently do when you’re awake. This thing we call sleep, it beckons you, whines for you. And when you give in, you leave the living behind to mourn for the dead.
Its not as poetic as propaganded. The light fluttering of lashes like butterfly wings preparing for flight, the curling of lips into a smile from a dream too surreal to be etched into memory, the twitching of facial muscles like ballerinas doing a dainty dance on his face. These, these are a lie. Watching someone sleep is like having to bear the uncertainty of life, the weight of losing someone to unconsciousness. Watching someone sleep and then regain life is like walking into a morgue and recognizing an old friend.
Every night, I sleep next to someone already dead. Maybe your heart is still beating, maybe your breaths are still strong, but your consciousness, your love, your memory, its all lost when you succumb to fatigue and the pull of unconsciousness. I lose you to a dream, I lose recognition of you in a thick haze. I cannot recognize you when you’re asleep.