2 a.m.

He wondered if it was just him,
As his eyes, strongly protesting…

2 a.m.

Yet again.

The room was black,
Other than the faint brush strokes,
Of a waning Moon,
Painting dim shadows in the bedroom,
Struggling to make Her presence known
In the emptiness of night.

Slow, grinding… endless,
His mind chose the midnight’s prerogative,
And brought him, mercilessly,
Back to his worries.

Though his body needed the nourishment
Of sleep,
So badly…
He would be deprived this night,
Yet again.

Each worry of work,
And the future of his family…
His responsibility to secure…
Seemed at such risk,
Fears stoked all the more by
The demons of night worry.

But then, in the deafening crescendo
Of concern…
A beautiful, harmony began.

Slowly, growing in grace,
He heard her breathing.

Measured, rhythmic, peaceful.

She in her sleep, unknowingly,
Began whispering to him.

Beat, beckoning his attention.

And then, as if answering his plea for inner
Her beautiful breathing delivered him.

As if under command, he started to
Mimic her breathing,
Both in beat and depth.

Slowly, her rhythm took control.
Helpless now, he found himself
Being drawn into her sleep,
Her beat,
Her peace.

And taken, mercifully,
Back to restful,
Beautiful dreams…

Of her.


© 2017 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

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