colors

She watches the floating colors from passing cars dance across his face as he sleeps. In the still darkness, she whispers words of love and hopes he hears them, a closeness forged in the unconscious.
    He had been awake for too many weeks straight, stressed self-awareness that made him uneasy in the knees, ill-minded from too many coherent thoughts.
    Now he just sleeps.
She stays awake to measure his breathing, taking note of his heart rate and watching the floating colors of passing cars dancing around his features. The blues crowd in the corners of his quiet mouth, the reds powder his flushed cheeks, the greens slide beneath his eyes, puddles of exhaustion; the yellows drift across his features as a whole, like the sun in a rush to rise.
    She drums her fingers against his chest to match the pattern of inhales, marking an invisible tally each time he smiles from far away.
    Despite sub-conscious separation, this is when she feels closest to him, when she has no knowing of his thoughts, able to create stories of what drifts through his tired mind. Stories in which things are easier and the colors dance across their face yellow, like the sun desperate to rise to bring them back together.