I used to write about her. I would write
With eyes shut tight—shut tight that I might see
A world outside myself; a blessed night
When she might come unbidden unto me.
Now, I fear to close my bloodshot eyes.
I fear the dreams of her that I must bear;
The hope that festers there—the wretched lies
I once held dear. My night mind is her lair.
There, she’s still and silent by my side,
Her fingers interlacing with my own—
I touch her cheek and look into her eyes—
We needn’t speak; we live and breathe as one.
There, I’m wrapped in such serenity;
Blessed by a peace such as I’ve never known—
Yet doomed; accursed for all eternity,
For when I wake, I am again alone.