You sleep different.
Some others, hidden away under miles of sheets,
inside the duvet cover, even —
buttoned or zipped up tight
while I, folding and tossing about,
frantically search
another sheet, another pillowcase.
A body lost in layers with no heat to spare.
Still others, sleep-talkers and -walkers.
A mumble, a shout in the night
means that much more —
shakes a house apart.
Any step in dark stillness seems its own radical act
and I listened, I watched, always.
Awake. Tired.
You do two things:
You drift off after saying your piece,
still, you say it
I weigh it, and you hear me mumble back
some sleepy pleasant thought
lost by morning, but I remember the feeling.
And,
you hold me and I hold you.
Even off in a dream not about you
and you, in a dream not about me —
mutually found
warm in a cold room.
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