Love Letters Of A Chronic Insomniac

As I lay here, befriending the darkness of night yet again, I can't help but wonder even if you were here, would there be enough room for you in this overcrowded bed? To the observant onlooker, it would appear that there's only me lying here, the other side of this bed barren, the sheets cold.

Every night I climb into this grave, indentation on the right side of the bed, a daily reminder that the other side of the mattress remains flat, new, untouched. Yet as untouched as it seems, is there room for you here? Is there room amidst all the doubt and fear that shares these quarters with me day in and day out?

Where are you, that person who should be here watching me sleep and marveling at the reality of my existence; that person who feels a magnetic pull towards my physical being?

Does such a person even exist?