Her hair was black.
I remember that.
Notes stuffed in the bottom of an old drawer
That chronicled a life
That was secretly tragic.
Not that you'd know by just a look.
Whispered snatches of song
barley audible beyond the blowing
Of a million scraps of paper on the floor
Sticking to the spots
of brown stained water leaks.
And he found her on the floor,
Not like in his dreams
Where all the precious words
That made her music
Were used like tissue paper
blotting out letters with circles of blood.
And all he wanted to do was tuck her hair behind her ear
And sing her all the favorite lines of songs he liked.
But she was sleeping
And he didn't want to stare
In case she woke up and was startled by him there.
He didn't want to be labeled
with transparent tape,
barely noticeable but still there,
freak or pervert.
Didn't want to violate her privacy
or the trust that she could sleep with out something happening to her.
It took months to get her insomnia to die down.
And who would blame her for being unable to sleep with nightmares that never should of crossed the boundary into reality.
And when she cried in her sleep there was never much to do.
She would awake, not really ashamed but rather just tired of having it happen again, and for having to put me through it again.
She'd calm down at just the right pace so I felt comfortable leaving her alone. Though I knew she wasn't really calm,
just conscious that I had work in the morning and never should of been up in the first place.