Automatically acting

She dragged herself to bed.

He was sleeping heavily. He could actually fall asleep anywhere.

She laid beside him. Under the sheets, his skin felt soft as a feather’s touch.

It smelled like baby lotion in the middle of the night.

Moonglow raindrops, deep forbidden music and snowflakes in spring as he walked by.

She gazed at him, all starry-eyed, watching as his chest gently rose, gently fell.

He turned slowly towards her in his sleep, not realising what he was doing, automatically acting.

She felt his warm breath on her lips and quietly craved for a kiss that would make her melt away.

But that was just her dream.

And yet, she dragged herself to bed.

He was numbly detached from life; falling into a deep sleep on the sofa in the living room, as the football match was finished on the boob tube.

So he never really laid beside her or stroke her face with his soft dark angel wings.

It smelled like warm sour beer and cheese puffs on a cold day.

Neon light split and refracted, terrace chants, sweaty clothes as he walked by.

He flung himself down on the bed. His ryhtmic breathing was now rythmic snoring.

They turned their backs on one another, automatically acting.

She cried quietly, so he wouldn’t notice how much of her life was excruciatingly wasted in waiting.

"I'm your man" (Leonard Cohen)