On long car rides late at night,
You finally exit the freeway'
And the car slows to a gentle stop.
The lost momentum stirs you and your eyes open
Just enough to see the car's insides bathed in red light.
Your eyes are more comfortable when they're closed,
And the warm air whispering from the vents invites you
To slip under completely.

The early morning, when you still have an hour or two of sleep.
You turn to get more comfortable,
Feeling the warm spot where you used to be.
You sigh deeply and,
For a moment,
You think you catch the scent of your own home.
You pull your sheets higher and feel your body relax.

The teacher is lecturing.
You feel your legs grow heavy.
Your blinks become longer until
It's more work to open them than you're willing to put forth.
The fluorescents buzz a lullaby just for you.
You hear, but you can't listen.
A sharp jolt.
Your head bobs.
You are awake.

You're seconds away from falling asleep.
A dull flash lights your eyelids, and
Though your breathing stays the same,
Your heart rumbles with the distant thunder.
You are made aware,
Once more,
Of the steady patter of rain on your window.

I've woken up in the middle of the night.
I never got around to closing the blinds.
The only sounds are that of my still, sleepy breath,
the near silent roll of tires on the snowy street.

We were hot on our hike,
So we stopped by a spring.
After soaking our feet for a moment, you lay down to rest.
You're asleep now.
The hot sun warming my back,
The water nipping and chilling my feet,
The occasional splash of a from in the shallow pools,
And the steady, pulsing wing breathing fresh life into my lungs.

Ducking underwater when I'm the only one in the pool.
A quiet, turquoise haven.
There's no splashing,
Yelling,
Clinking toys;
Nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.