On Falling Asleep

I dreamed last night that there were weeds growing across my face. I dreamed that I was sewn into the ground with foliage, that I was tied to myself with vines. That I couldn't escape.

I woke myself up gasping, and moved to the edge of the mattress. Your arm was tucked under my neck, the edges of your fingers curled, half fist, at my shoulder. The dream vines were your arms.

I rolled over and into myself, as far away from the danger of your grasping limbs as the tiny bed would allow. I had dreamed you into a monster and I was afraid of what that might mean. And I shuddered little shocks because the radiant heat of your body was drawing me back to you, terror and all.

You muttered, "what's wrong?" and I knew it wouldn't matter what grasping explanation issued from my lips. I knew you wouldn't be able to hear anything I said, that the best way for me to tell you that I had been afraid was to curl back into you and hope for the best. And I was right; your breath turned even and slow, your arms lost definition and fell into the curve of my hip, you fell back asleep.

I couldn't stop thinking about the weeds growing over my face. I couldn't stop thinking about how I have never grown used to a body laying next to mine. I couldn't stop thinking about the girl who would draw her hand back away from me in her sleep when I tried to grasp it. I couldn't stop thinking of my first boyfriend's head on my chest and how shallow my breath had come on those nights.

I couldn't understand why your thumb in the center of my fist could narrow my focus to only that. I couldn't understand how you could sleep, with your knee propped so awkwardly on my hip. I couldn't understand why, two nights ago, I couldn't sleep because you weren't next to me, and why now, I cannot sleep with you next to me. The illogic felt so big, bigger than the swell of your belly in soft sleep.

You were lying on your back, and I rolled off my cramped shoulder, almost on top of you, back to chest. I was worried that I would wake you up, that my weight would crush your fragile ribs, that I would impede your febrile breath. So I was tentative, I leaned onto you with aching slowness. And as I settled there, I felt the shake and pulse of your heart through my shoulder.

I counted the repetition of your heartbeats . . .two . . .three . . .and I matched my breath to yours, even the catches. And the thump of your pulse through my back did something to my head. It shoved something up, it jarred something out. And I understood, stumbling into sleep, that I had not dreamed your arms into suffocating weeds. I understood that my fears grew rampant in such fertile soil as this. That the warmth of your breath in my bed is soft soil for these things that terrify me; but you are not the root of those vines.

But neither are you their gardener. They are for me to prune back.

I fell asleep again, and I dreamed of trees.