Insomnia

My back is empty.

Where is that touch

of cotton, warm soft skin,

or hair that used to brush

against my face, becoming

spiderwebs within my dreams

or keeping me from dropping off

to sleep while holding her? It seems

I miss the toes with nails

like icy glass bits biting

at my calves, or her odd way

of twitching as sleep caught her, fighting

as it were, the very state

she liked so well. Together

these would force me to roll over, 

toss & turn, and pull away from her

so that my back was empty.

It's funny - the irritants

that kept me up I wished

would go away. And so they have;

but sleep comes hard.

And oh, my dear, you're missed.