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Sometimes I miss sleep
Not what I do every night, not what I'll continue to do for the rest of my life. I miss sleep.
I miss the slow process of laying down, with the buzzing noise of my childhood friend's TV or the distant sound of the train.
I miss my little sister telling me she could hear Rudolph on the roof or asking me for a story.
I miss the feeling of falling into sleep, and I say falling so literally, as I can still identify that familiar drop in my stomach before I succumbed.
I can still picture that same image of myself falling, not unlike Alice, into a never-ending tunnel of quilts, slowly until I headed off to my own wonderland.
I miss waking up in a sea of warmth, a hand, or a leg thrown across me, snores ringing through the room. Light hits my face from a window coated in dust. My pajamas are the same clothes I'd worn the night prior, that I'll wear again today.
I miss my childhood friend's mother softly asking me if I'd come with her to get breakfast for everyone. I don't have to put on my shoes.
I miss the feeling of falling asleep on the way to the donut shop while Green Day sings me a lullaby. The car shakes as we hit pothole after pothole, but it's still the best I'll feel for months.
I miss the way my friends mother will lightly hold a cold bottle of orange juice to my skin, the way she'll laugh softly when I shrink away from it.
I miss her asking me if I'm awake yet.
I miss answering that it's too early.