Sing it, Mr. Anka!
I find that I'm beginning to suffer from insomnia. I'm not sleeping very much these days: I'm getting to bed late, lying awake for hours, and rising early, not wanting to linger in bed.
And the reason for my insomnia is simple: I don't like to sleep alone.
I miss my wife. I notice her absence. I miss her warmth. I feel a void. My bed becomes a vast expance in which I am lost.
I miss her lying next to me, our bodies melding together—spooning—her curves enveloped into mine. My arm around her, holding her close to me; my hand, gently cupping a breast, resting in a seemingly natural position. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Our feet entwined. It's as though our bodies were made for each other, that we were designed to fit together.
I miss my wife. And so I cannot sleep.