When you’re lying asleep
beside me, mostly
naked, as I am,
deep in sleep
(unlike me, who sleeps
lightly), and I
eavesdrop
on your living-in-your-sleep,
the part of your life I
can’t share,
haven’t shared our
fifty plus years together,
each night roughly for
eight hours,
adding up to
months, years.
And then myself am
pulled down by
the need to sleep
and can no longer
think or see
clearly but sink
into the pool of
quasi-thought and illusion that
translates, sometimes,
into dreams,
fragments of which
may linger
when, over breakfast,
we try to
share what is
un-shareable
of our lives
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