when she's sleeping

at night,
when she's sleeping,
i apologize to her.
i tell my wife i am sorry
for only showing my heart
on paper,
for bleeding in the bathroom,
for having to apologize to her
in her sleep.
i regret leaving the word lying around
where anyone could come by and
trip on it.

i think i am also sorry
for never
fucking her, but only
making love.
i know some people just want to be
fucked. but i can't do it anymore.
i don't have the heart for it.

i whisper things into her ear
after she has drifted off, words
that tame me.
i tell her where it hurts.
i ask for medicine no one could
possibly provide. i think she has a
pharmacy within her chest and maybe she can
mix something there between her breasts.

sometimes she smiles when i tell her these things
in her sleep. i don't think it's joy, but something else
entirely. i think it's because she secretly knows my mysteries.

she mumbles something about love and i smile too.

i let her linger in dream and i close my eyes once more
so when she awakens she can apologize to me in my sleep.

the song we sing keeps us here.
it shows something timid and fragile.
it has a ring that only we know.
a subtle rhyme that begins all things.

we rattle the words
to the
unconscious part
of ourselves,
building
bars to our special cell
where we keep those
fragile parts
that no one can touch.

it hurts me
that i can't scream
the pain away.
it harms the
fabric
draped about
my wounds.
it sticks
to the scabs.
if i could only
speak, the
terrors would
subside.

at night,
when she's sleeping,
i apologize to her.

i'm sorry for the future,
for everything i
can't bring myself
to say.
for everything that
could rip the pain
away.

i'm sorry for the small breaths,
the little sigh.
i'm sorry i deserve this.
i'm sorry you need that part of me.

i whisper small something's
to her while she's sleeping.
when i'm old
i hope
she can smother
away those whispers
so i never have to wake up.