It is dark.

It is dark and it seems even darker than it is

because my eyes are not awake yet,

have been closed for so long that when I open them suddenly

they do not see anything.

She is kissing me.

She is kissing me on my cheeks,

on my nose,

on my forehead,

messily and hastily all over my face.

She is kissing me and her dark curls obscure my vision

and her hot tears taste salty in my mouth.

I am only confused for a moment,

but it has been far too long in this bed,

far too long waking up next to her,

to not understand her when she needs me.

And so I wrap my arms around her,

gently force her to stop kissing me long enough

to pull back her dark hair

and look into her dark eyes

and see her beneath all her darkness.

Once I've found her,

I can comfort her.

And once I've comforted her,

maybe she can get some sleep.

Maybe she'll be able to get up in the morning this time.

And if she doesn't,

I will do what I always do.

I will bring her hot coffee and warm bread.

I will tell Thom that there will be no bread from the bakery today.

And I will stay home.

I will hold her in our bed,

stroke her hair beneath my fingers,

whisper soft songs into her ears,

bathe her olive skin,

and try to get her to come back to me.

I will love her,

and do everything that loving her entails,

everything I promised her I would do

five years ago when we toasted that little loaf of bread

in our fireplace on that cloudy, rainy day.

I will love her because love is the only cure for her darkness.

Love is the only thing that can wash away what they've done to her.

Because what they've done is bad,

irrevocable, even,

but what I have for her,

what we have together,

is magic.

And I have to believe that it can cure our ills.