I hold your hand as you sleep and I wonder, is it you that is holding mine?
Holding me down in the winds that toss my uncut hair and the long days that keep it. Anchored underneath you to the surface of reality so that I feel the texture of our time traced in rivulets and nursery rhymes.
Holding me back from the gears that grind the Sun across the sky and rumble low behind my sunken skin. Pulling hard on me until, unhooked, you let me go. Then of course I know because you held me thus and let me see the crushing world up close.
Holding to account every moment lost behind a ticking hand. My tapping fingers and your shallow breathing. Holding my breath as your every squeeze and subtle shift lifts (as if it were a wisp) the weary weight of my mind.
Holding on to my finger tips so they cannot stray too far toward a toil that would only trouble the stillness stretching out like glass about us. Reflecting your infinite iris blues.
Holding my wary gaze with your voluminous dreams that slip like visions across your soft cheeks and flash as cinematics upon your eye lids.
Away from the decaying world, Deep into our infinity, You are gripped about me, Holding me, Setting me free.
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This is the sweetest. My daughter is now 14, but just last night we were talking about how, when she was three, I lay down with her every night on her tiny toddler mattress and held her hand as she fell asleep. I remember at the time having "preemptive nostalgia" - that sense of already missing the present moment. This bit of writing captures that sense so well.
So tender and beautiful, David.