Watching Her

It’s a rare thing, her
sleeping. Afraid to touch her,
he watches instead.

Never relaxes.
Fighting it. What will she miss?
Anything? Nothing?

Frowns, curled around a
pillow. He wants to kiss her.
But he won’t. He won’t.

Deprivation. Days
and days, leaving her thin and
wasted, so tired.

She won’t tell him why
she is afraid of sleep, what
nightmares wait for her.

She has secrets. He
knows. Broken eyes. Even in
her sleep, she is cloaked.

Fragile, he holds her,
crying into her pillow
asks, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.”

Why does she lie? Why?
Can’t fix a broken person
behind a smokescreen.

Touching her sadness,
its scent fills the room, sweet and
gone. He loves her. Fool.

Sleep, little girl, sleep.
It’ll be okay. I promise.
And he holds her. Tight.