But I imagine you are asleep.

I see the steel blue of your lips, but I imagine you are asleep.

I see the porcelain of your features, the waxen skin glistens, and I imagine that you are asleep.

I wish the coldness of your fingers were warmed by mine, the pallor to fade, the broken vessel to heal, here while you sleep.

I hear your breath as a laugh, a rattling sigh as you come here to lay, a resignation to the world, when it fell about you as you sleep.

But I imagine you are asleep.

*          *          *

Many years ago  fancied myself to be a poet, and it think I’ll take up the habit once again.

Hope you enjoy what I may or may not produce.

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