Memories stir. Lithographs of a time ago; thoughts, images, feelings brought back to life by a practiced hand. And with them comes self. Me. Was, is, can be. Pain floods, but the tears are good. I curl near him, careful not to disturb, grateful for each listened breath, for each sense of nearby warmth. And am comforted, return to sleep.
I'm glad you were calmed, and sorry I slept on regardless.
ReplyDeleteYou were ill... it was important that you got better.
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