My tousled haired love

I see her heart, warm, beating, alive

rising and falling in time with her hopes,

and her breath, deep and ancient,

releases despair from the depths of her soul

as the room absorbs both daylight and night’s illusions.

 

Blond, scattered lines  litter the pillow,

casting their love nets over cotton and

I wonder, as I stare, bleary-eyed and

piss desperate, I wonder how

her thoughts move inside;

where they go when she’s asleep;

how she manages the fragile pain of conversation

and how – dear God how? – she keeps it together,

when so many other’s died with half her torment?

 

I also realise, like so many fortunate men,

that she does it, this living thing,

because she is a Mother, A wife, My best friend,

and I am all the better for her honesty.

 

.

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