There’s this strange kind if pain you get when you wake up alone, after having gone to sleep next to someone. See, there’s a wonderful venerability about willing to be unconscious with someone. You are completely open and in their hands, you are defenceless. And the act of sleeping with someone, and I don’t mean sex, I mean just sleeping on a cool night, the blankets laying on you in an artificial hug, with his hand softly resting on your chest, protecting you from the night world, that kind of sleeping, that act is so pure and trusting.

And when you wake up, and that person who promised to protect you with the unspoken gesture of resting their warm arm over your sleeping frame, that person is gone, it’s like a small portion of your heart has been sliced out, so it still works, it’s just a little thinner, less strong, more vulnerable to pain.
It’s the section of the heart that holds the irrational side of trust. Even if I knew you had to leave. I expect to wake up safe. But there is something much more lonesome about waking up alone after you fell asleep together. Whereas waking up alone after being alone is comfortable.
The unconscious mind can’t compute what’s happened, where the person is, the expectation is that they should be there. Warming you with their presence.

But they aren’t.

There’s such a finality in it. But more than that, there’s such loneliness. Emptiness and betrayal. Not from them, from your mind and your heart.

Your heart expected them to be there, and your mind is poking fun at the vulnerability of your now slightly weaker heart.


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