her shivers
have nothing to do
with the weather.

i hold her as we sit in the back of an SUV
headed northbound for Gainesville.
she sleeps restlessly, waking
intermittently. breaths short
and forced. her mother sings
pop hits that pour from the radio,
a melody that rings somewhat discordant.

i run my hand
through her hair. still damp.
i wonder,
for not the first time,
if this gesture means
as much to her
as it does to me.

from the driver's seat, a mother sings,
"stand by me when you're not strong,"
but her daughter is asleep and can't
hear the song. i lean over, lips
a hairsbreadth from her ear,
whisper, "i love you,
Lexi." she smiles subtly.

maybe i was wrong all along.