He is brooding, silently mixing through his emotions like steps leading to the end of a mission. There will be a prize, triumphant. His fingers play his beard in thought, long fingers, gathering loot as though his smiles are dependant on it.
I’ve had those fingers, just as I’ve seen those prizes.
Shaking me awake this afternoon because he feared a nightmare had come.
Twitching in a deep sleep, hoping to escape out of it, hoping to escape once and for all.
Putting me to bed with a stroke of my hair, and a kiss on my cheek, and I realise… I have escaped. I am free. I am home.
Sunday rain makes lovely for peace.