Well, my sheets are cold at night and in the morning, they’re wrapped tight around my body in hopes for your warmth.
I used to wake up, body sticky from a night spent sweating while asleep—must be from the combination of wild dreams and your body against mine. In those days, I could only be roused by your mouth on my mouth or your hot palm moving up the small of my bare back. With the darkness of the early morning, when my apartment was full of our heat and a dim amber glow beginning from behind my curtain, we would search out the source of that heat under a thick duvet. When found, there within my sheets, we could feel it in our knees and toes and fingertips. Each morning, it was you and I, and this thing that had been brewing between us.
Now, I go to sleep cold and wake up looking for some heat. It’s not there, it’s in another cold bed far away, and without it—I am tired and weak and looking for something in sheets and blankets, and I could come close, but it just doesn’t compare.
