Gone Again

Arriving after we'd left for the theater Saturday evening, wrapping me in warmth and safety Saturday night and all day Sunday, he slept beside me, strangely quiet. Often I cannot drift off for his snoring, and must nudge him around until he stops, but not last night. But could I sleep, comforted as I was by those big arms and the rumble of his breath in my ear? After the initial restful three hours from eleven to one, I found I could not. Restless, I spent my time stroking his skin, tangling my fingers in his silky hair, curling up against his body in various curving lines. Perhaps he was relieved that Pogo barked and kept me out of bed and away from him for an hour or more, which I filled with a load of laundry, a list, a trip outside to the garbage can and a fresh poem. When he left me at five this morning, I huddled down mournful into the bed again, not venturing out until well past nine. It used to be four and a half hours was my total night's sleep, not the second half.