This is the language of sleep, the
Heavy weight of day, resting entirely upon
That frown, those soft lips, and on
your tired brow.
In the way you grind your teeth
I can see the peaks and valleys of all
Those things you’ve seen
And all those things you want to see.
As you dream, your lips shaping into words
I can’t quite hear, I see your mind processing the
Hours before, trying to make sense of memories,
Tossing and processing information
So that there is some semblance of sense
In the things we do to stay sane.
I want to play with your hair and brush my
Fingertips down the skin of your arm, but
I know better than to wake a sleeping Sparrow
Who just needs to sleep
Because the next day, and the next, and the next
Are battles to find a way to just
be happy.
D.H. Lee
