This isn’t technically a poem, but it’s close to it.
It was a simple task on record, but off it was easily the hardest thing she could ever hope to accomplish.
In his arms, things were safe, warm, delicate but on the outside of his embrace she was finding life hard to cope with. On the outside there were no gentle kisses to her lips, cheek and forehead to reassure her of her safety. There was no strong arms to hold her up from hitting rock bottom. And there was certainly no peaceful slumber.
She could argue that he didn’t understand what he did to her. She could almost be certain that he didn’t know of the delicate emotions that erupted with every twitch of his fingers and every flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek. And, of course, she knew without a doubt that he didn’t know about the sensations she felt when he pressed his bare flesh against hers, or nuzzled her neck.
In fact, she wasn’t even quite sure herself. The only word previously used to describe these intense emotions was “butterflies”. The word seemed so broad now. The butterflies referred to a feeling in your chest or stomach, not a feeling that washed over your skin in waves, making you feel warm, safe and wanted.
Outside of his arms was where she currently resided, head resting on her knees, eyes staring sideways at the blue wall in her darkened room. One hour being both the exact amount of time he had been gone and the exact amount of time she slept the previous evening (or morning, but who’s counting).
She was tired, her mind ceased making sense and she still tingled from the whisper of his touch (strong arms previously wrapped around her). Her body ached to both be with him and to drift off into a peaceful slumber, where her memories of those few beautiful (however, fleeting) moments they shared earlier in the day would be on repeat (and not drenched in blue around the edges).
Alas, neither ache would subside as neither want would come true.
Peace was written on the walls, on her sheets, on her blanket, on her clothes, but never in her mind. Slumber was painted where it was able to be seen, but not to be acted out. Love was at the fore front of her mind, body still holding sweet whispers of caresses.
Dear Mr. Sandman,
the slumber never calms
the waking beast
changing their heart
to let someone in
but perhaps, it’s misery.