4:41 a.m.

You sleep far deeper than I do.

Almost an hour ago, your body rolled hungrily

Into the warm recesses of the sheets,

Your eyes still closed tight in the pull of sleep,

And your movement woke me.

Since then, I have been watching you,

Watching your lips part slightly in breath,

Watching the rise and fall of your chest, your arms,

Watching, most closely, your eyelashes.

I’ll bring my lips less than an inch from you, sigh gently,

And watch those sweet, dark curls tremble in my wake.

I watch them flutter almost imperceptibly, dancing to the rhythm

Of whatever dream you’re having.

And I wonder if it’s of me.

And they’re fragile things,

Eyelashes,

Apt to fall on your cheek and become a wish,

Thrown into the air and lost in an expanse far too vast for them.

And I don’t know what it is about that fragility that makes me

Turn away, pull the blankets tighter around myself,

Pretend I haven’t been lingering over you ever since my eyes opened.

I don’t know if it’s knowing

That every blink is a roll of thunder,

And so is every morning, waking up

Next to someone you might not like as well in the sunshine.

Or if it’s not wanting to wake you.

You roll again, this time away from me,

Into the emptiest space at the edge of the bed,

And I wonder if you’re awake too.