I look into those shattered eyes
and only see the silhouette
of a haunting past.
Each step,
is hesitant and unsure,
almost as if he seeks to tread
between the seams of reality.
When he has settled into uneasy rest,
I lie awake and listen to each smooth inhalation;
the oxygen passes in a rhythmic stride.
The unkempt sheets tell of restless nights
spent obsessing over a restless mind.
His discontent is unspeakably overwhelming
and I feel and fear each lonely sigh.
I've already awaken from this fleeting dream
and can only find comfort in his insincere apologies.
In a rare moment of peace,
he lays his head down into my lap
and I pull through each blonde strand,
hopelessly lost in my own dissatisfaction.
I try to ignore the emptiness this simple facade breeds in the pit of my stomach.
The t.v's muted lull
causes my mind to drift,
and my hand ceases to work through the golden strands.
He sighs. I sigh.
I ache, for I know that these quiet moments are numbered.