Some Nights, Sleep Doesn’t Come

Some nights, only memories do.

It’s a quiet night.
The kind of quiet that feels loud.
The kind that presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling,
counting the things you can’t say out loud.

The bed feels too big.
 The room feels too empty.
 he world feels too far away.

You toss.
You turn.
You swing between thoughts you wish you could silence.

You miss them.
Not just their voice.
Not just their presence.
But the way they felt against you.
The warmth.
The weight.
The little things that made the world feel less lonely.

You miss the way their hand found yours without thinking.
You miss the way their body curved into yours like a puzzle that finally fit.
You miss the way skin on skin felt like a language only the two of you understood.

Tonight, there are no distractions.
No noise to drown the ache.
Only memories — 
touching your mind the way they once touched your body.

You close your eyes tighter,
hoping sleep will come if you just pretend hard enough.
But it doesn’t.

Instead, it brings flashes.
Their laughter.
Their breath against your neck.
Their sleepy smile, half-hidden in the dark.

You wonder if they ever miss you like this.
You wonder if, somewhere, they’re lying awake too — 
swinging between wanting to forget and needing to remember.

Some nights, the loneliness isn’t just emotional.
It’s physical.
It’s a longing buried deep in your bones.
It’s a ghost of a touch you can still almost feel.

And no matter how tightly you hug yourself,
it doesn’t fill the space they left behind.

So you stay awake.
And you miss them.
 And you carry them through another sleepless night.

Because sometimes, missing someone isn’t just missing a person — 
It’s missing the part of yourself that felt alive in their arms.