always be there..

 Her sleep was a form of neglect. She did nothing for days, the sun and moon had washed up on the same shore.
Her negligee became her flesh, her flesh became the soft folding of air over the sheets.
And there was no night, nor any sign of it.
Nothing curled in the air but the sound of nothing, the hymn of nothing, the humming of the room, of its past.
Her flesh turned from itself into the sheets of light.
She began to wake; her hair spilled into the rivers of shadow.
Her eyes half-open, she saw the man across the room, she watched him and could not choose between sleep and wakefulness.
And he watched her and the moment became their lives so that she would never rise or turn from him,
so that he would always be there.
— Mark Strand

amber ortolano