Book of Hours: Night

my hand traces the sound of your breath, whispers
silence from fingertips along the ridge of your spine

mist-scented jasmine
bright summer moon blooming
awake

you sleep, secure, while the moon holds me in trance
I play with thoughts. Should I wake you, or let you sleep

lost in Morpheus’ grip
eyelids flicker in dreams
of dawn

sheet slipped low I wait for the first gray light
to slide over the windowsill, chasing away oblivion

wishing I could
follow into your dreams
I watch

you wake, stumble to the toilet, never notice how I watch
from beneath veiled lashes, while I pretend to sleep

© Jan. 11, 2006

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