Once, not that long ago, I couldn’t sleep with light in the darkness of my room. A pinprick of light was more than enough to pierce through my eyelids to keep me awake for hours.
These days I sleep through the soft, black light from my computer screen. Sometimes I wake up to the familiar creak of his wooden bed, but more often I hear nothing until morning, lost in my dreams. A year of electronic slumber parties and a summer of travel has made me an adaptable sleeper.
Tonight I sit in the pure darkness of my room, under my soft fur blanket, feeling like I’ve forgotten something. Tonight there’s no light from my screen, so heavy breath to wake me. My fan blows to block out the sounds of the world, but it seems that a layer of my white noise is gone. There’s no open link to the other side of the world, no comforting presence to be found.
How can such a simple thing mean so very much? How does a soft glow bring such beautiful security and tenderness? It feels strange to go without it.
With or without the light, tonight I will close my eyes and dream soft dreams of him, as I often do.