Sleeping

It's ok.
It's ok.
It's ok. I whisper until my words are not words; they are just the steady thrumming, thrumming of a guitar on my knee. The incadescent fire is behind us, and I pluck a little tune. Your eyes begin to droop in the balmy heat of my voice, but whatever fear rocks you quakes still at your feet. A quarter rest. The words you struggle to say are not gentle hums, they are claps of confusion and chaos. I will cover yours with mine. My words will lilt and dance and spin spirals and nets to watch over you while you sleep. Your cries stutter and extinguish, the jarring notes caught and sealed away in your throat. Now it is only your breath that jerks and pulls in sharp notes. Half rests in sequence. Now there is only soft, rolling rhythm and breath and wind and the strumming guitar.

it is cadence.