I leave.
You sleep.
Gladly, i see.
I think. I remember. Cummings’ lines come to my mind:
“(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands…”
Then, my eyes close and yours are there, right there.
Talking, whispering.
Gladly I.