While you sleep

All I can do. I shall sit here, barely mov­ing, barely breath­ing, hold­ing your right hand gently between my cool palms, feel­ing the del­ic­ate lines of skin that form above and below the joints of each of your fingers.

It’s true that I am impa­tient, always impa­tient, and that such impa­tience makes me reck­less, both­er­some and ever so slightly obsess­ive. Yet, deep within this mere frame of skin, I have been stor­ing up pre­cious emer­gency reserves of the will­power that you so often find a source of riot­ous humour because of how fre­quently it fails me. The joke (such as it is) is on you now, my dearest, because I can find the strength to wait for as long as it takes, believe me. From some­where. Somehow.

Flick­er­ing, watch­ing the flick­er­ing. I have become a silent movie. Don’t draw back the red cur­tains. I don’t need the clearest of views to be able to tell, from my hid­den vant­age point just below the sooth­ing rays of illu­min­ated dust particles, exactly what is required of me.

All I can be. I shall whis­per a sol­it­ary word to myself under the near-rhythmic pat­terns of life unrav­el­ling just out­side my grasp — not the word you’re think­ing of either, not the one I whispered to you in the seconds before your eyes fluttered to a close — as I watch the sun rise, the clouds drift and the moon fall through the gaps in my con­scious­ness. I can see your leaves mov­ing even in the slight­est of warm­ing breezes. I’ll water the plants while you’re not here. Yes, it’s a small and point­less ges­ture, but life must go on in all its var­ied forms, I suppose.

More flick­er­ing. Hush. Hush, I’m watch­ing. Second reel, the sound of mag­netic tape. The faintest elec­trical glow dances back and forth across my face. I’m not sure what the time is any more.

All I can say. Don’t go down. Stay wrapped inside this shin­ing light, won’t you? I am here forever, and not just because I have nowhere else I would rather be in this pre­cise moment. Nor in the plen­ti­ful future moments that wait in an orderly queue bey­ond the plain, unas­sum­ing door at the foot of your nar­row stair­way. I won’t reveal all my reas­ons right now, because you need to rest. Dream. Be. For a night and a day and then some.

All I can’t do, all I can’t be, all I can’t say. That’s the true mean­ing of the only pro­tec­tion I can offer until the sun comes up for a new day.