you tell me all the time you love to watch me sleep. in the nook of the couch around midnight. in the bed at six in the morning, before any living creature is roused and our tiny room is washed in dark.
but i love the flutter of waking. when your eyes shift around under their lids and i can tell you're emerging. out of that deep dream and into the warmth of the quilt, and my my hands in your hair. that look of confusion that quickly gives way to recognition, oh hey, i know you. and for that split second, before words crush the moment and deflate the cocoon, there's a holy peace, a sacred space. yes, i suppose i love the flutter of it all more so than the dreaming.