red on floral

She watches him sleep,

his chest,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

so peaceful.

Could have been an apparition,

those raised hands and voices,

the impact of palm and face,

palm and face,

palm and face,

’til her lip split.

Wouldn’t it be easy,

warm blood soaking her cotton sheets,

red on floral,

smeared because he would come awake.

Red hand clutching for her,

Would he take her with?

To his hell?

he would try,

and try,

and again try,

Would he win?

would it matter?

She was dead,

 empty,

 hollow.

Watching him now,

while he sleeps.