|Dante in the Dark Wood, William Blake (1757-1827)|
It's hard not to read reproach in your eyes after they've stopped twitching, and you lie, pale and spent, under the lavender quilt. Even as I tuck it around you, the quilt is small recompense for what you've endured, again. I had just sat down in the bathroom with a cookbook, of all things, when I heard the tell-tale sounds, a suffocating dog, so I placed the book on the floor, stood up and assembled myself as I walked to your room. Relieved to see you on the bed, this time, I lay my hand on your forehead and wiped the side of your mouth, and when you had finished I tucked the quilt around you, read reproach in your eyes before the lids closed and color pinked your cheeks.