The body heat that she radiates and upon which you nightly rely for warmth and comfort is absent. This bed is a campsite and you shiver now that the campfire has gone out.
It's only 10 PM. You've retired from your labors--which, on a Sunday, include taking catnaps and watching cartoons--early because you figured that it would make your time apart--jeez, you're dramatic--seem that much shorter if you spent so much of it asleep.
Until, of course, you figured out that you haven't slept apart in almost four weeks, and that was only because you fell asleep watching Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs on the couch and she had the good sense and self-preservation to retire to bed.
So what's worse, you wonder? Sleeping alone in a bed made for two, or watching the clock drag its feet?
You hear a rustling at the front door and your eyes leap to meet your love, clouds of your passion creeping under the doorframe and into the hall, meeting her before your hands can and before your lips can catch up to hers and your mouth can remind her of all of the things she missed while she was away.
But then a copy of The Watchtower is slid under the door. Those damn Jehovah's Witnesses are on the prowl again.
You decide that you'd pray to any God (or permutation thereof) if He/She/It would make her walk back through that door.
This house is a foxhole. And you can't wait for the two of you to jump back into the trenches.