To my night sweats,
Oh dearest honeysuckle of mine! How I yearn for the way you clasp me to your clammy breast at night. I long to be washed in your ice cold shower. I dream of tossing with you under our elegant duvet, as passionate and heedless as Musgrave and his Lady.
Each night that you do not visit me is a torment of sweet, deep dreams – of arid sheets and morning warmth. When will you return and suck the lifeblood from my skin? When can I shiver with you and watch dawn trickle through my window all too early? How long will you make me wait?
I promise I will sleep without a towel under me, so you may saturate my sheets and yellow my mattress, as I know you love to do. As I rise from bed, I will brave the sharp and utterly frigid air, comforted by the goose bumps you raise on my dripping body. I shall not change out of my pajamas halfway through the night, I swear. I will relish the heaviness of cotton twisting and bunching around my joints.
Only come again, sweet night sweats. Come to me and deprive me of sleep. I will wait with a rose on my pillow, my darling.