Sleeping and dreaming

And I often find myself remembering the feeling of you falling asleep beside me even though it has been a long time since you've done so. Sort of a descent, a slow softening, you melting into me. Then I'd start to radiate whatever that was coming out of me. Laying there quietly, beaming something, glowing in the dark. Holiness.

I can't really sleep next to anyone now. There's no rest in it, no glowing, nothing holy transpires. Maybe I don't want to have that with someone else. Then I almost allow myself to think about you sleeping beside another man. That thought used to drain me of life. Now I can sort of see it in my mind from a distance. I hope that you feel safe there, and I think you do.

There was the time on the deck of the ferry. It was bright and a little chilly with the ocean breeze, and you sat somewhat snuggled against me for warmth. I held you like that and was glad we weren't talking because I don't think I would have been able to speak. That was the first time I felt you fall asleep. My heart was so large, I thought it would burst. A sacrament.

I don't know why it meant so much to me. But it did. And it does now. I don't know how being close to you made some kind of energy stream out of the palms of my hands and from my solar plexus. But it did. It hasn't happened since then.

It's hard to accept that something that powerful just ends. I don't really believe that it did.  As long as I can remember, I don't really believe that it will.