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Literature
she is the precipice on which i stand
sometimes i can see the tension in her smile.
it's those long-night mornings
where she's so spent
she can't hardly walk straight
and her image of a perfect life
slips just enough that as she's tumbling into bed,
in the moment before she passes out, she looks at me.
through her exhaustion and her dazed feelings
from pulling yet another all-nighter,
she smiles.
it's her smile she says is just for me
because in that moment, in that smile,
she has let everything go.
she won't admit to it, not even to me,
but she's tired. not tired as in sleepy,
but tired as
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Lit33
