NyQuil

Last night on the grass you told me about the universe.
Last night on the grass you told me about the absence of matter and about what your conscience would hold after everything else is gone.
Last night on the grass your told me how you think someone should feel when they're in bed with the right person and I think I'm feeling that too similarly except the other side of my bed is cold…

"You're the best insomnia I've ever had."

But is it insomnia if I want to be thinking of him at 3:39 am?
Is it insomnia if his fingerprints left on the sides of my cheeks are what's calming me?

Is it insomnia if i would take the remembrance of the his hair scent over ten extra minutes of sleep?
Is it insomnia if I purposely listen to guitar plucks rather than ivory tickles when I lay in bed because it reminds me of his calloused fingertips?

I don't think it's insomnia if this soothes me rather than nerves me. I can't imagine insomnia being a feeling of absolute solitude. Insomnia isn't the way I feel about imagining him lying next to me. Chest rising and falling under my palm. Insomnia isn't waiting all night for green eyes to open in the morning.

Insomnia is sharp. This is soft kitten skin. Insomnia is cold sheets. This is a warm duvet straight from the dryer wrapped around my bare legs. Insomnia is a hair tangler and cold ice under your feet. This is the feeling of Mama's braid down your back and putting your hand into the sedative steam rising form the boiling water.

Insomnia is the thorns. This is the blood petals. I rub them across myself, my collarbones. I smell like fresh april and my cheeks are a rosy July. He tells me I am beautiful.

Insomnia is Clair De Lune on repeat until sleep finds me. This is a lifelong rendition.

Insomnia is bolting the locks. This is a waltz through the door. Insomnia is a night dependent on warm tea. This is a night with no time for tea.

Insomnia is ache. A malice. Insomnia is the blues. Black & white. It's melancholy. Insomnia is a punch and a right hook. Insomnia always has the upper hand.

This. This is "quiero abrazarte ahora" and his thumb across my cheek. It's his fingerprints that have not washed off.

Insomnia is not succoring. It is not rapture. This is vehemence. Zeal towards him and only him. This is ease. Laid back. Hands behind my neck. Ankles crossed. There is sunlight through the blinds and I'm breathing simpler than I ever have before.