Precious blood.

Your precious blood coursing through your precious veins, and your bones and the skin I'm sure is wrapped around them. If only I could be sure that you exist beyond the fairy tale, beyond the forest, beyond the mist. I insist on entertaining the idea that you're breathing somewhere out there because if you're a figment of my imagination then someone's not playing fair. Beyond a window, before a door, you're sitting cross legged on your bedroom floor or that's how I picture you; that's perfect. I suspect in your chest is a heart left undressed with care, with grace, with something. Now at night I can't sleep. I can't muster a dream so I'm sitting here quietly writing. But you've counted your sheep and moved onto catching your z's and it makes my own bed seem inviting. So goodnight broken verse; goodnight moon, and goodnight girl... I can't wait to meet you.