It is the sound of your breathing,

the whispered stories of your dreams

that trouble your sleep like the touch

of a forgotten lover

or the drift of leaves against stone walls

It is the way your shoulders curl against the pillow

and your graying curls that touch

against the weathered lines in your neck

that were the first place

I kissed. Your hands pull

the quilt like a child’s might do, seeking

protection from the dark of night and I wonder

where your dreams have taken you, and if

there might be space for me within them.

Am I there with you, sipping coffee on the porch, or are you

in a tunnel in some Asian forest, the monsoon rains

soaking through your boots?

Your hands clench and rest; I lay mine over yours

and feel your pulsing blood course

through their races beneath your skin.

It is these times, I awake and you alone

in the clutches of the night

that I feel closest to you

and yet a stranger

in your dreams.


About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, NaPoWriMo, short poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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