YOU WERE SLEEPING, deep into page 32 of the Book of Dreams. That's the page where you float away from the cliff's edge and stand on the beach painted by Seurat, the beach full of pointillist brown-and-gold speckle. It is the beach of my dreams too.
I was watching you sleeping. Your shape fascinated me, as it always does: the purity of your lines, your soft curved bays and secluded coves hidden from the wash and soft suck of the sea. I was listening to your even-pulsed breathing, your breath as I imagine it must have been in that first, primal, dawn.
The sea froths up your fears, foams your worries from your warm blood as you sleep.
Sleep softly, my love, sleep well.