For years, I’ve softly rested the back of my right hand on the curve of your sleeping body. It’s the perfect spot. Warm, smooth and inviting. Seemingly made for me.

Sometimes I would let it linger toward your hip. A short journey made magnificently better if you happened to notice and press into me. Regardless, it was there for comfort. It just felt good. And I hoped, even subconsciously, that you knew. I felt close to you. And as we closed our eyes for the night it was one more way of saying ‘I love you’.

Early on in our separation when we still shared a bed, I missed that feeling immensely. I was inches away while you drifted in slumber and yet we were a million miles apart. I felt that if I reached out and let my right hand rest on you, now so foreign, you would wake and pull away. Of all the things going through my head this was one of the hardest. It was the realization of how far apart we were becoming. To long for a whimsical caress. To pray for one casual touch directed my way. I would take the world if offered but it’s that simple gesture that’s killing me. It almost makes me wish for memory loss.

You seemed cold one evening. The night air had dropped a few degrees and you were fidgeting with your blanket. You’re weren’t doing a very good job of covering yourself. I could hear you breathing sleep but still there was tossing and turning. Normally, I would have slid closer and warmed you. Holding you firm but gently. So that you could continue to sleep. That night? I remained still. I remember thinking about getting you an extra blanket but even that felt risky. I couldn’t take the refusal if you were to wake. So I remained still.

On one hand I layed there trying to build up the courage to causally touch you… To let my hand rest on you, once again. On the other, I chastised those thoughts while inching closer to the edge of the bed, respectfully trying my best to give you space.

I recall thinking that if I was to tell you these thoughts you would have probably ended the sleeping arrangements for good. Right then and there. And I would lose yet another part of you. You see, even if it wasn’t reciprocated, I would take what I could get. However painful.

Then, out of respect for you and the awkward living room couch situation where kids could be uncomfortable, I began sleeping on the floor next to our bed. I realized then that soon enough, when you got your way, there wouldn’t even be these sleepless moments of me, inches away from the love of my life, hands tied and lost. Like I was being buried alive. Everything closing in so quickly and there was nothing I could do about it.

The nights blurred together and it became more and more odd as we got closer to the day you were going to move out. Once that day came I moved my mattress into the middle of the room at 3:16 AM where our bed used to be and it felt cavernous and lonely. I have had one good nights sleep since then, born from sheer exhaustion and assembling my new bed after a long day. A bed just for me. Just one decent sleep. Generally my nights are restless, depressing and full of missing you.

Since those days of sleeping apart became a reality the arthritis in my right hand has become more pronounced. I’m taking the pills but they seem inadequate. It’s not unbearable joint pain or anything; it’s just my hand wishing to touch you one more time. Wondering, constantly, if the last time it rested on your back was indeed the last. I can’t even remember when that was.