In the still of the night...

She tiptoed - ever so gently - across to his room,
Her passion a riot of colors.
She stood at his door and looked this way and that
And then inside where he lay
Sleeping like a child, curled up, as if in his mother's womb.
She closed the door behind her
And reached out to him, yet stopped short of waking him up.
He looked so much at peace
Oblivious of her ragged breath, of the turmoil within her.
She kissed his forehead and left.
Tomorrow, after all, would be another day filed with longing.
Tonight was his to be alone with his dreams.