It's hard not to focus on her tits,

on the rise and fall, on the fabric

that bunches up around her,

climbing slowly up her torso

as she tosses and turns.

If I were to look at her,

I would see the creases beside her eyes,

the downward pull of her mouth,

dragging me down with the softness,

into the space where she just barely parts her lips,

and gasps.

She has always gasped in her sleep,

once little rabbit breaths,

full of surprised delight,

but now she takes in breath

like she's ready to scream,

with the sheets gripped tight

in knuckles pale from pressure.

And sometimes,

she cries.

It's hard not to focus on her tits,

because I might see the pain

that she tries so hard to hide.

My lover is lost in dreams,

and I cannot be beside her.