Eyes wide beside you, I trace the path
of headlights from slick roadways
beyond the glass. It is 2am.
No waxing swell of moon presses
its yellow ribbons through cracks
to aid my vision. The air is weary
tonight. The streetlight blooms
over your profile, then flickers and dies.
Instead of sheep, I count the silences
between us. You turn your back to me
in sleep. My palm hovers, feels warmth
rise from your sheeted form, withdraws.
First published at Mad Hatters’ Review