Posted June 25th, 2018 by Alaska
a lull of quiet washed the room clean,
white walls now purple from the night.
lights from outside leave their long fingers on the surface of her skin,
a soft glow on a gentle brain.
i hear her breathe,
swayed by the softness of her exterior,
fluids trickling into her blood;
every drop emits a soft beep.
i used to be bothered by its harshness,
but it has become a requiem to her nights.
“please don’t fall asleep,” i speak to her quivering eyelashes,
slow whispery breaths, like she is dreaming.
“please stay up a little longer,”
like when we were kids,
and her tired eyes would smile patiently at my requests.
but i know this is no night to drift off to;
i ask her heart to stay awake,
i ask her brain to coax more blood through its veins.
i ask her lungs to show oxygen the way,
through its twisted corridors,
winding into rooms.
i hope they will not doze off on their night shift,
catch her at the wrong moment, when she is not paying attention.
i ask that her muscles rest but her cogs still turn.
See more stories by alaska