Tremble
it's my worried mind that you quiet
She's a restless sleeper.
Always tossing, always turning, always kicking out her legs and turning away. He wonders if that's a subconscious thing: does she want there to be space between them?
It gets worse when she has nightmares. Muffled cries into her pillow join the rustling of her body against the duvet; his nights become accompanied by the symphony of her sleep-driven struggle. There's only so long he can stand it before he shakes her from the holds of her own demons, a gentle hand on her shoulder and a hushed, "I'm here, angel." When she does wake, she never talks about them, but he can imagine what the dreams are about -- past memories that work themselves into monsters in her mind.
He pulls her close, then, an arm sneaking around her waist in an attempt to keep her against him, her back pressed tight to his chest. A kiss to the part of her neck that her hair fails to conceal, a whisper against the warm skin, a process that he repeats until the trembling stops and her breathing evens out.
In the morning, she'll act as if it never happened.
He wakes to a face smiling down at him, hands resting on his chest, her hair tickling his cheek as she bends towards him. A soft kiss. A soft, "Good morning, angel," falling from his lips into hers. She glows in the light that the rising sun pours over the shades, the image of radiance; red hair catches the light, grey eyes wide and shining, the easiest of smiles on her lips. She's beautiful and she's finally free for a couple minutes, finally at odds with those monsters that haunt her mind. Life goes on and the demons might return, but he lives happily knowingredients that, at least for a few minutes every morning, there isn't a worry between them in the world.
Always tossing, always turning, always kicking out her legs and turning away. He wonders if that's a subconscious thing: does she want there to be space between them?
It gets worse when she has nightmares. Muffled cries into her pillow join the rustling of her body against the duvet; his nights become accompanied by the symphony of her sleep-driven struggle. There's only so long he can stand it before he shakes her from the holds of her own demons, a gentle hand on her shoulder and a hushed, "I'm here, angel." When she does wake, she never talks about them, but he can imagine what the dreams are about -- past memories that work themselves into monsters in her mind.
He pulls her close, then, an arm sneaking around her waist in an attempt to keep her against him, her back pressed tight to his chest. A kiss to the part of her neck that her hair fails to conceal, a whisper against the warm skin, a process that he repeats until the trembling stops and her breathing evens out.
In the morning, she'll act as if it never happened.
He wakes to a face smiling down at him, hands resting on his chest, her hair tickling his cheek as she bends towards him. A soft kiss. A soft, "Good morning, angel," falling from his lips into hers. She glows in the light that the rising sun pours over the shades, the image of radiance; red hair catches the light, grey eyes wide and shining, the easiest of smiles on her lips. She's beautiful and she's finally free for a couple minutes, finally at odds with those monsters that haunt her mind. Life goes on and the demons might return, but he lives happily knowingredients that, at least for a few minutes every morning, there isn't a worry between them in the world.