It’s January

I lay still, awake,
as you prepare the mask
that breathes for you.
I realized at that moment,
suspending your breath was once
survival for you.

Grey hairs have appeared
on your face, your armor from
searching eyes.
Those eyes that are a raised voice,
‘Leave me be,
I make ready to fight the demons of old’

I turn in my sleep, you go silent, not wanting
me to know as you enter
the quiet of our room,
You who has not slept,
yet again.

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