Lighthouse

Silence.

Fog-heavy unnatural stillness,

hanging in the atmosphere, 

tangible. Thick and oppressive. 

Disturbed only by your irregular breaths

swirling, dissipating,

announcing consciousness’ departure.

Each inhale and exhale a lifeline

tossed across choppy duvet waves, 

nocturnal roars providing protection 

against the mind’s riptide, 

counteracting the fatal pulls 

of insomnia’s undercurrent.

Twin pairs of hands reaching,

Lain, exposed side-by-side in silent prayer.

Pale moonlight slicing through restless meditation

tossing and turning, thrashing helplessly,

a dark familiar whirlpool 

threatening to pull me under 

my movements creating ripples 

in the night’s inky waters.

Unconsciously grasping under the covers,

an open question awaiting hesitant response,

lonely skin seeking lover’s worship.

Like Hypnos transforming slumber’s isolation

filling the room with a numbing melody 

of secret whispers thawing the back of my neck.

Your presence a steady lighthouse marking the horizon,

your light glinting across crumpled sheet shores,

shining through saline rain tears,

gently falling onto your chest.

Your arms pulling me in closer, guiding me home 

to you, to skin-and-bone lands of flesh and stone

holding me tightly, fighting off crisp winter gusts 

creeping in through your open window.