Nothing Like What I Usually Talk About

It was impossible to sleep last night. Sleep was this hazy beacon on a far shore, taunting me and not letting me acquire its peace. I was the bobbing idiot who forgot how to swim. Therefore I remained in that halfway state for most of the night, turning over every few minutes, not wanting to glance the beaming red numbers telling me it was far past my bedtime, telling me the sun would soon pop the quiet of night. 

Was it because he wasn't there and I was waiting? Even though he had a completely adequate excuse and I understood? The absence of his heavy breathing, his form lying to my right, was that what caused the wakefulness? His cats meandering about, wondering where he was, did that add to it? I was alone in his house, perfectly comfortable, and yet missing the home part. The him part. Perhaps that's why sleep couldn't even have been bought that night. If that is the case, then I feel weaker than ever. 

In the meantime, I'm one of those people who walks out of restaurants still holding the plastic cup I was drinking out of. Right now I'm drinking root beer out of a cup from Fuddruckers. I used to have a collection of odd cups from different restaurants, but a lot of them got lost when my family moved. Ah, well. It's cold out, my excellent buddies.