You, asleep.

Deep, slow breaths
(you told me once that I breathe so slowly when asleep that you worry)

Your face
Half a lifetime etched there, 
Relaxed now.

Do your dreams make sense of this dream-like life you now lead?

I know you do not dream the old, terrible dreams
Because I have sat with you through many a night.

One thing remains from the old life:

When I come close:
You stir,
And tell me you love me.