Grace or Betrayal

I lie awake at night taking an inventory of uniquely him. The freckles on the top of his feet. The softness of his hair and the way it would start to curl up if he went too long between haircuts. The strength of his grip. The red in his beard. The little scar on his leg where he didn't like to be touched. The feel of his breath against my neck while we slept.

But my memory struggles with the passing of each night. And I realize that I don't sleep because I fear sleep. It comes like a gracious thief and steals away the sound of his laughter, the scent of his skin, the shape of his mouth. And I wonder how long it will be before I can no longer feel his fingers slip ito mine.

Is it a gift or a slow betrayal? The passing of time. Or is it simply is. For sleep eventually comes and steals from my inventory of uniquely him.