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The Bones Of Her Dreams She knows enough not to believe in much of anything or have faith in my words when I speak of things like love and hope. With her fingers she traces the contours of my body trying to convince herself we're something more than strangers. In her bed we lie using words to try and translate the sorrow beneath our skin. The silence has more substance than our conversation and the warmth of her tears is the only thing I truly understand. We know the same darkness. It eats us from inside and out. She says she is safe only when she sleeps and places the bones of her dreams in a box beside my own. She closes her eyes and rests her head upon my lap. I do not sleep but sit up as if to somehow stare down the darkness as if my vigil might keep her safe from what is lurking just beyond the candlelight so hungry for whatever it is that's left of us. |