The night is too hot. The bed is too cold.
I stare at the ceiling, faces swirling above me.
Laughing at me, crying for me.
The night is too silent. The bed is too empty.
There is nothing.
No sound of soft breathing to lull me into a state of pure contentment.
The night is too long. The bed is too hard.
I stare at the wall, places flash before me.
I roll over and meet once again, nothingness.
Another cold, empty corner of a lonely bed.