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Dramatic Monologue Three: To The Sleeping Figure
Sunshining, through curtain lace
That happened to fall on you
As you lie in the bed
In the bedclothes that were yellowed
And warmed by sun.
And I watched as you laid, twisted
Amongst the sheets that creased
And were bunched into a heap.
They looked like mountains.
And you, the sleeping giant
In the valley, near the shore
Of the blue blanket.
You, my dear,
Were breathing steady,
(Like I suppose one sleeping does)
And I watched the rise and fall of your
Left to the elements in the morning light,
Where little streams of sunlight fell, illuminating
Your lackluster skin.
To think, you’d soon wake,
And soon be off, in much haste.
And I would not see you again til evening,
When you would return, from the office in the city.
And then you would again become this,
Pajama-clad figure, claimed by sheet-monsters.
But, for now, I breathe deeply in,
And I smell the faint hints of musk
That belong solely to you,
My slumbering one.
And the scent of Wednesday morning sunshine.
You look cold (nearly porcelain-like, I’d say)
As you’re claimed by your dreams.
And I see the outlines of yesterday
Still playing on your features.
But still, you look calm.
And I cannot help but to reach
Gingerly (I don’t want to wake you)
And touch your pale face.
A gentle, lingering trace of human touch.
I muss your hair
And it sticks in odd directions,
Like the weaving rays of light.
But too soon, I see you leave.
Trailing your sunshine-mornings behind you.
(It pains me so, to watch you go
Into the city, to the office that torments you so.)
And I dive underneath the mountainous sheets, still bunched
Where your ankles would’ve been.
And I settle into the imprint of you.
Left behind in sunshine.