Dear one,
sinking into rest,
you slip away
in our solitary quiet
deep into
her
gravitational hold.
Whispering, reaching,
teasing with drowsy tendrils,
she makes your thoughts
her library,
your dreams and heart,
her playground —
a secret garden
with a broken branch
and hidden key.
Only you
know where.
She finds
what you hide,
and hides
what I seek.

I wish I had
her skill,
to put down
the simple storybook
we share;
and from spectator
to spectre,
scale your fortress
of hidden thought,
Fortinbras to your Hamlet,
the tale told in full
at last;
and taking her place
in the tableau,
turn angel
to your rest,
concluding the act
in sleep
by your side,
knowing you
at last.

But I fear
my part is
the Fool
instead,
left to explain
mysteries
to the wondering
crowd.

And, then,
the curtain.