Note the time.
Not being able to sleep together in the same bed has little, if anything, to do with our size. Size is relative at best. It is true that you're a sprawler, spreading your limbs out like peanut shoots, selectively grounding feet and hands under blankets, pillows. It is true that I roll over, and over and over again. I steal covers. I promptly return covers, only to take them away again. Unkind unconsciousness. Overfawning awakeness. You grunt and I struggle to make out your slumber monologue. I'm early to rise, usually watching the 7am minutes flash past, waiting for a 'decent' hour to commence pre-wakeup cuddling, inching my hips back until you give in and give up, wrapping an arm around. This is not why we can't sleep together though.
There are some days I fall asleep unexpectedly. On those days I'm whisked up like an infant and placed in my egg-carton padded bassinet (or rather yours). True, my bed was made for the littlest Goldilocks bear, but that shouldn't matter I feel. My widest part, my hips are 36 inches around, which means laying down they're about 18 across. Your hips are not nearly as wide, which means we should be clearing the 39 inch measurements of my twin, especially if what we say is true. We should be like a kitten pile, an amorphous mount of hips and limbs and eyes and tails. Go ahead, blame the bed.
I've slept in armchairs and plane seats. I've slept on bathroom floors and ballroom floors, couches half my size. I've found you asleep in front of drafty windows, wearing little, arms pinned under your own weight. Tonight I came closer to finding sleep much in the same way as I would catch small prey- by standing very still.
I think I'm too kind a bedmate. I feel awful even as I write now- that the erratic keyboard taps will keep you up (though I'm convinced an atomic bomb can go off and you would not always stir). I want your peanut shoots to ground themselves and sometimes, for me, that means hugging walls or curling around the edge of the bed, one foot on the ground. An attentive nighttime farmer.
There goes the refrigerator hum. No stirring.
A train screech and yell. Nothing.
No, the reason why we can't sleep together is rather simple. It's not you, it's me. I don't sleep, even though I would desperately love to. Such a fickle friend, sleep. Capricious at best.
And though neither of us really sleeps when we're together, I would rather feign sleep with you than to sleep honestly alone. 4:30am now and you look more handsome now than you have all day. I know when you leave that my pillowcases will smell like you and there will likely be an orphaned hair or two. When you leave, I'll sleep for real, the kind where I keep my eyes shut and my body half shutters.
In the meantime, I suppose it's a decent enough hour for cereal. And needed teeth brushing. I'd say goodnight but I mean adieu.