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.