sleep

sleep is an elusive and inconsistent mistress. there are nights where she comes immediately upon head hitting pillow, wraps me in her pale blue arms and holds me tightly, not leaving my side and comforting me until the wee one's cry or squeaking leaps in the crib rouse me. there are nights where she holds me for a while, then grows weary of me and leaves me to the cold sheets as she makes her way out , never even looking back over her pale blue shoulder to see if she's awakened me. there are nights when she seemingly comes home late, having been out god knows where while i have tossed and turned waiting, and she slips in unconcerned about whether i was worried, lies my head to her breast and coddles me until the morning.

then there are nights like last night. sleep, she is not only inconsistent in her comfort but in her behavior. she is, for the most part anymore, at the least a quiet and comforting mistress when she comes, and once she comes, when she stays she is typically the sweet lover we all need. but nights like this last, oh no she cannot be counted upon. nights like this last, she comes pale and smoky, raven tresses wild with anger and judgment, fire burning in her cats' eyes, fire born of something i cannot understand fully but that looks like hurt. i know her, i know who she is but not why she comes like she does, know not why she chooses these nights to berate silently, to hover fearfully and threatening above me, hand to my cheek but staring through me as she mouths the words i cannot hear.

she carries with her a ghostly pallor now, bluer than death but not so blue as to seem a caricature. her hair is darker than it ever was in life, the curls not so softly coiled as they were but every bit as untamed. her neck, her limbs, all longer than they were, she has gained an even more feline aspect than she once had. and her touch, that touch that once was the world and warmed me from within simply to consider, has come malevolent and causes a shiver, part of me longing for it but shrinking from it all the same.

i can feel her anger, it is palpable and real, and her eyes weep their fire onto my forehead as though they should carry the words i cannot hear, and can see in her heart the back-and-forthing between a sadness i cannot understand and the anger that blazes as she tamps down that sadness, the anger smoldering through her fingers to leave her mark on my cheeks.

on these nights, i sleep but i do not rest. i simply awaken as i fell into sleep, tired and wanting for the dreams to remain at bay, but with the added weight of that judgment upon me and wondering if she will ever forgive me.