She looked pained in her sleep. Was the pain inflicted by a bad dream or fear, upon waking, the nightmare would begin? ~David Olson
Her lungs heave and hollow in long, rhythmical waves, cresting, falling in equal measure but different rates. The tide rises and falls at the behest of the moon seeking to kiss the maiden in the night sky before she sleeps below the horizon.
Sleep, the peaceful little death. A portent of the long death? It is a time of rest, rejuvenation, hopefully, bliss. Yet, there is pain etched on her face in the deeply furrowed brow, in the frown pulling the corners of her eyes toward the disheveled carpet on the cold floor.
Nightmare? Maybe. But, every night? Is she hiding from the daymare reality of a life without answers, from a partner unable to bring joy to her hungry heart? Even in sleep, there is no escaping life.