You're here now, breathing next to me restfully,
though not totally asleep.

It's the light from the computer,
the tapping of my fingertips on the tiny buttons which house the letters that create the words that are undoubtedly keeping you awake.

I'm glad, though, that you take me this way and understand that I'm a
late game hitter,
A surprise second-string pitcher

-sports analogies, aren't men supposed to understand those? When written correctly, I suppose, and I gotta tell you, I hopeless with sports -

But it's nice for me to have you here,
your warmth and ambient sleepy noise
and dreamland shifting of this arm or that leg,
the habitual fumble known only to boys
who might be unconsciously uncomfortable.

I wonder what you dream about. If I could reach inside, would I find out?

So instead, you get a poem tonight.

You get my true attention without knowing that my heart lies in these words more solemnly than the suspension of time between sleeping and wakefulness.

No, those holy hours pale to the gusts and the gales that create the storm that inspires the fingers
to tip tap away
and create the pathway for my brain to follow
and find the doorway that leads to that hollow space inside.

That elusive candle that hides the dark.

You'll never know, but you are my spark.