Beneath your fluttering eyelids,
your green-flecked eyes struggle to stay open,
urged on by the drone of my voice,
buzzing about the weather and school
and all those small glorious things
I want you to care about.
"Morphine" the nurse calls, "morphine".
Your hands fall into mine like autumn leaves.
The white drops drip into your blood like rain;
I imagine them mingling with the purple of your veins.
The canopies of your eyelids are still,
shielding your eyes from mine.
Are you falling asleep
in a shower of purple flowers,
or drugged dreams I can not fathom,
and who will protect you from the storm
when my hand slowly disentangles from yours?
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