I was quiet because I didn’t want to wake you.
You looked peaceful, and very
sleepy, hanging over me in your cocoon –
a child again, or from another planet, that was it.
You often slept this way (your green eyes, I
kept thinking, were seeds), but I knew time
was limited (your eyes closed, at peace).
How many times would I see you like this
before one of us died?
I want to look at you so that, if you die,
I will have your green eyes (which you cannot,
will away, so I must steal). I observe you,
worry that my stare will wake you,
but you sleep on soundly.
That is what I adore about you.
You sleep soundly at night, never snore,
never wake when you shouldn’t, never
dream anything that isn’t beautiful. I liked you
best when you were sleeping. You slept so
sweetly (and time was limited, so I
sought to immortalize your elegant rest).