She doesn’t sleep.
It evades her as a skittish moth
would evade a determined palm.
Instead she dozes in the shallows,
the ice-cold and transparent tide.
Pushed along the hours by dark thoughts
Affection is the worst of lures.
Blinds you in its presence and
leads you deep into the woods.
Holds your hand and caresses
your knuckles with warm thumbs.
You are reassured.
And then when it leaves,
the blindfold goes with it,
fluttering in the wind.
And you are alone
in the woods, in the dark.
In a clearing that looks the same
in every direction.
is worst than the nightmares.
But the only way home