Pillow Talk.

I used to have this fear that I would hear you utter someone elses name in your sleep.
The possibility that you might love another; the graveyards of old girlfriends haunting your dreams.

You always wake me in the night with your ramblings.

Last night I awoke to you stroking my cheek. You said “I love you, Sam,”
I said “I love you too, baby,”
Then you rolled over and went back to sleep.

That’s how I know it’s real.

An automatic phrase at the tip of your tongue,
Nothing to hide or conceal.
No thought behind it, no rehearsed words,
Something that escapes you even in sleep.

You may be asleep, but your love is always awake.
I’ve come to realise that love is a state of being,
Your words reminded me.

They are the best words to wake up to,
Even if you have no recollection of it,
I will dream of those words for the rest of my life.



Somewhere between the crackling boiler, like a burning log fire –
and the sounds of your gentle breathing, do I close my eyes:
and suddenly, all at once, I am asleep.

My dreams are so vivid, when I wake they seem like memories replayed,
And I wander through a hazy dreamworld that is inescapable –
Tangled in bits of cloud that wrap around me like cotton wool.

Some days are enshrouded in thick fog and I am blinded.
The cotton wool gets into my ears and my eyes,
And the days run into each other like watercolour paint.

When I touch you, I forget you are human.
Some days I can’t feel the warmth of your hands in mine.
And I fear I am sleepwalking through time.

Sometimes, nothing feels real.
Maybe that’s why one day I lost the ability to feel.
If I lose it all I could wake up from the nightmare, and pretend that
none of it was real.