edge of slumberland

The things you say soft
while you fall asleep, breaking
in upon your own thoughts
as they trail and swim,
and seep, and sink, breaking off
and back on, are pieces
of secrets I know
by heart, all wrong.
With each time, each
slip and wordfall
that has come soft again
as if ever before to fill in,
to clarify, to let once
be known for all time: and why.
My breath held like a glass.
Your breath like a page, your voice
falling like pen,
and drifting pressed
indelibly into
memory, telling me
you are mine
in illegible scrawl.
Undressed, and
Incomprehensible.
But it's fine. I'm
beginning to know
by now, for some time
just how to decipher
what you mean to me.
You're falling asleep
again, that's all.
I am still waking up
in moments like this,
in this dream. I'm beginning
to trust how this goes. Let it
be.