Sown by insomnia story

Sown by Insomnia


My Muse,

I can't sleep.

This is a frequent problem. The need to sleep is an ache behind my eyes but it isn't strong enough to overcome the restlessness that coils itself in my belly. It's two-thirty in the morning. The night's gone cool outside of my window, full of the sullen silence that comes from the city fallen dormant. I am sitting here, typing, imagining that the warming plastic beneath my fingers is your skin. It's smooth as I imagine your skin to be but harder. Cruel. When the keys give with their impartial clicks, I have to smile. They protest the passage of my fingers. Your skin would sing.

Still, I stroke this key or that one with the pad of my middle finger and imagine that it's you. I draw tiny circles. I smooth my fingertip along a plastic hollow, over and over again without being able to help myself. I miss you. Missing you makes me touch my tongue to my lips, to rub the tip of it along the ridges of my front teeth. My tongue is as restless tonight as my fingers are, as my belly is.

I can't sleep from wanting you.

So I will close my eyes and hide the desire to sleep in them, and instead I will concentrate on the different sort of ache that has made my nipples go hard. They have been that way since you stroked my hair. Since you called me your dear one and held me fast to the heat of you. Since I left my own musk on my fingers, from pressing at the deepest ache of all beneath the thin cotton of my panties. All of this time, and still I need only whisper your name to feel myself beginning to burn. This is what being in heat must feel like, the constant moisture between my thighs, the desperate need for friction, for pressure from the inside out.

With my eyes closed, it's too easy for my thoughts to race on. I can't focus them as I do when looking at something. They race. I think, and it's all colored with you.

A lover once told me, after I confessed a fear of being found distasteful, that I was sweet on the tongue. He insisted that I tasted of peaches and ever since, I have licked my own fingers after bringing myself to orgasm. I taste the sugar and smell the syrup. He might have been right.

I want to be sweet. I want to be dear.

You were right.

I want so badly to be cherished in ways that will last, that will imprint themselves on me, burn into me and mark me with that love. I want the quiet confidence of being a precious thing, of knowing with each breath drawn that I am pulling air into a vessel that is in every way adored. I want every facet of my perfection put to good use and every flaw I possess to be seen as a stepping stone to improvement.

Why are there shadows under your eyes? Are you not happy? Is it the dreams you say you can't remember?

I want nothing more in this moment than to bury my face in your hair and to inhale the scent of you, to pull it into me. If you can't fill me with your flesh, I'll take your smell, your air, your breath. I will be the unicorn who ventures from the forest holding a breath trapped on her tongue. You will be my flower, my secret, drawn deep, so deep inside...

You do make me happy. This ache is a sweet one, beneath the sting. I'm learning to love the pain.

Lately, when I put my fingers to myself, at the moment when I'm about to come, I have twisted and pinched and pulled my nipples until my eyes watered with the feel of it. It hasn't felt like pain at all. It's felt so good that it washes away the wet spasms of orgasm and I'm left breathless, gasping, wondering where that slick ache went, how I could overlook the peak.

I never come less than twice now, in quick succession. Last night, it was five times...and it still took me an hour to fall asleep afterwards.

Sometimes I wonder what it will take to cure the ache. Sometimes I wonder if my waking dreams, dreams of you, are bright enough to chase sleep away and the reason for my insomnia.

Sometimes, I wonder.

Sighing,