In the Dark
You never saw me, did you, there, in the dark room?
I was standing right there, by the window, watching you as you came in and sat on the bed. You looked – how shall I put it? – a little lost.
You took off your jumper and threw it on the floor. I almost went over, to pick it up, tidy it away, but stopped myself. What would have been the use, anyway?
You buried your face in your hands for a long minute. Were you crying? I took a step, the smallest, tiniest of steps, but then you suddenly stood up, and I froze.
You came to the window to look out over the back garden. A distant street lamp shining through the trees cast a complex illumination across your face.
I held my breath, then let it out when you turned away. You never saw me and I was only six inches away. If I had put my hand out and touched your face, would you have felt something?
You fell into bed with your clothes on, tossed and turned for a few minutes, then became still – so still. Until I saw your hand twitch, I wondered.
Now, asleep, I can sit on the bed next to you, and here in the dark, softly, soft as a memory, caress your fine hair with the tips of my fingers.