There's a cadence to her breathing
that keeps tripping
over mine.
We lie,
arms touching under the cotton sheet
worn thin and soft
from years of sleep.
She does not know I watch her,
my face inches from hers
staring through the darkness at her lashes,
the tiny ridge
under her nose.
She does not hear my silent prayers for her
my beggings for purity,
perserverence,
faithful love.
She only knows that I am near,
searches for milk with her white hands,
tiny moon hands
patting in the dark.
This week’s Poetry Friday roundup can be found at Scrub-a-Dub Tub.
