Laying awake,
I can feel her pulse
as her heart beats.
I can’t sleep,
but I’m at peace
in the rhythms we breathe
just for a little while,
until I’m out of bed,
on my feet,
seeking the night.
Pull on my coat
and I take one last look back,
then I am devoured
by the dark
and the street lights.
The way my car slides
through the veins of the city,
I’m out seeking the same thing,
but it isn’t flesh,
isn’t chemical;
just a face in the silent parade.
At night I just fade away,
while I know she’s safe
at home in our bed.
I go to work,
I seek my bread,
out with the creatures of habit.
Derelict daughters
under neon heralds;
they stray like their fathers.
I’m peaceful and harmless,
right up until I’m dangerous.
I don’t fear the night,
I fear what it makes us.
A job is a job.
A life is a trade.
The streets are awake,
lit without starlight,
but it’s alright.
Nothing changes,
just the name and the face.
Streetlights reflect in the long lines
across my windshield,
cracked once;
a long break that stretches end to end.
The radio is low,
playing music for the night.
There is no delight in the dark,
only stark contentment.
A child under his blankets.
It is only when the work is completed
and the return journey
has me sliding down slick, shiny streets
that I begin to miss warm blankets,
a warm body
and the rhythm of her breath.
The night may be a lover,
but my wife is my mistress.
I slip in next to her
and match her,
breath for breath.
And we sleep,
while the night lives on in the city.
HG – 2016
