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I'm quite tired of rolling over, half awake, and reaching for you. Any of you. At first I only reached for the most recent companion. Now I reach out for an idea, a blurred amalgam of people I trusted enough to be able to actually sleep next to. Every morning, the same. A fuzzy glimpse of sunlight through the windows, my hands reaching behind me - I've always loved spooning, and some of you did as well- and finding nothing, reaching in front of me, my hands sliding through sheet and blankets, grabbing nothing but the tiny pillows I've reverted to. A dull stab of panic so much a part of me it's barely alarming any more, and then I remember I've driven you all away. Except for you, him, the last one, the one I gave the most time, all of his and part of another's when the other clearly deserved it more. Well, clearly in hindsight. I didn't drive you away. I couldn't get close enough to push, you were already running, already angling and twisting reality so I'd be farther away.
This emotion would be lovely in a poem. e-hugs