Water pours from the sky, drenching the earth, bouncing off the roof and colliding with walls as the wind pushes it sideways.
I close my eyes and listen to the dull thuds as droplets slam into my windows, quickly turning into rivulets that rush haphazardly downward. Although all the windows and doors are closed, the smell of cool, crisp, moisture-laden autumn air fills my nose.
I’m laying in bed, curled up beneath two quilts in an effort to keep the chill out. Light filters harshly through slats in my blinds, mostly blocked out but leaking badly around the edges.
It’s late and I should be asleep, but nights are still one of the hardest parts for me to manage. The comfort of having your face on the screen as I drift into unconsciousness is a luxury I've always appreciated and have learned to accept as good-enough-for-now as we wait impatiently to be reunited.
But I still haven’t adjusted to not having you there watching over me even though it’s already been four months since the latest schedule change.
Tonight is proving no exception to my bedtime restlessness. I just want to be tucked up against you, my skin touching yours, bodies laced together for both comfort and warmth, the rhythm of your breathing soothing me as drowsiness sets in.
Instead, I find myself pulling a third blanket over my torso, and somehow, with it added, the pressure of the blankets along my ribs reminds me vaguely of the weight of your arm when it’s draped over me, making me feel safe and loved.
Although you aren't here, my imagination drifts away to bring us together, and a soft smile of contentment rests on my face as I finally fall asleep.
