Night Shift

And still, I keep the watch.

Moonlight spills like milk across her bed,
a thin stream catching coils of line and lead.
The monitor hums its spectral tune—
a lullaby wrought of wires and wound.
Each beep, a knell. Each blink, a vow.
The hour is glass. The time is now.

A shadow pools beneath the crib,
as if the dark itself could give.
Her chest heaves slow beneath the thread
of formula spilled and stories said.
My hands, half-ghost, perform the rite—
the midnight meds, the mask held tight.

And still, I keep the watch.

The rasp of breath. A stuttered sigh.
The sterile tang of passing night.
She stirs—her fingers brush my arm,
small, sun-warm stars against alarm.
And still I wait. And still I count.
The dips and rises. Every ounce.

I chase the tremor down her spine,
where silence blooms like bitter wine.
Each tremble taught me how to move—
no hero’s grace, no dance, no groove,
just habit honed by sleepless grace,
a practiced prayer I dare not face.

And still, I keep the watch.

And when she laughs—half dream, half moan—
it splits the hush, and I am shown
a world beyond the vinyl blinds,
where sorrow’s weight and joy entwine.
The moon, the girl, the ticking air—
a room suspended in despair.

The blanket slides; I fix it twice.
The oxygen reads ninety-five.
My fingers skim the plastic tube,
the cold that binds and might unglue.
I whisper names, both hers and mine,
as if words stitch the fraying line.

Each night, a sea that pulls me in—
the tides of breath, the pulse within.
The needle floats, the liquid stings,
the timer calls with metal wings.
But still I wait. But still I stay,
and trade my sleep to keep her day.

The hallway hums. The house is still.
Outside, the dark resumes its fill.
And I, unbodied, sit and lean
between the world of loss and dream.
One hand on hers. One on the chart.
One tethered bone. One breaking heart.

The moon withdraws behind the shade.
I wipe her lips. I bow. I wait.
And think, perhaps, if light returns,
I’ll name it thanks, though nothing’s earned.
This night, like all, is not the first—
the same pale bloom. The same dark thirst.

And still, I keep the watch.

And yet, it’s new. And yet, it’s ours.
A vigil strung through ghostly hours.
No end in sight. No rest to lend.
Just breath. And touch. And then—again.

And still, I keep the watch.