She's next to me. Not a life but a body. Breathing sure but wholly in her dreams, not in the situation. I can't make love to her. I can't even speak to her. Can't see her face as it's half in the pillow, half tucked up to her knees. She's a carcass. She's flesh and nothing more. And so the bed is cut in half. One side is occupied by mass, the other by restlessness. Is that why we married? To reduce my spaces? And then she rolls over. What's this? She's even come for the little I have left. Light as she is she could squash me like a gnat. For she is solid, spoken for by sleep. And I am fitful, head buzzing, living on, not in, my skin. But suddenly her arm flops over my chest. She's hugging me even if she doesn't know it. She's warm. I feel wanted. Maybe she dreams of me. Sure, subconscious is the place to be. But, at least, being conscious is not wasted.
—John Grey
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