Crossing The Boundries.

She stirs and moans in her dream-tossed sleep, the tears long-dried on her swollen eyes. I lie beside her afraid to move, her arm lies heavy on my breast. How can I wake her to her world of pain, expose her heart to the storms of grief that wrack her body and soul, night by night?
I gently brush a sweat-dampened curl from her face tenderly tracing the path her tears took earlier on. How beautiful she is to me, even now sprawled in forlorn disarray her Vodka-laden breath against my face.
In her sleep I can indulge in my fantasies of watching over her, cherishing and protecting her against life's blows. I want to kiss her bruised lips, to awaken her to a soft caress, to explore with my fingertips every inch of her beloved body, but she has no knowledge of how I feel, how could I tell her when it could destroy the warmth we have together?

Tonight we drank and cried together until finally worn with pain I undressed her and put her to bed, barely conscious she begged me to stay with her the night and gladly I cuddled her to sleep, how innocently in our naked forms we clung together until she slept, leaving me awake and confused. My body trembles at her touch, I should, I must get up, move away from these feelings, but each time I shift a little she murmurs in her sleep entwining her fingers with mine. I watch the face I've grown to love, the tumbled hair, the sweet lines of care smoothed away, how child-like and vulnerable she looks to me, I could stare at her face all night. But I must get away, if only for a brief while, to still my trembling heart. With one arm free I find my half-empty bottle of wine beside the bed, maybe I can drink a little and hopefully sleep.

It does no good; with my free hand I glide my fingers so softly barely touching her, each line and curve of her body mapped for all time. This must never happen again, she is my friend, my sister, I cannot, will not betray her trust in me.
Inch by inch I move away ignoring the tiny cry of protest, she will not remember this in the morning. Angry with myself I finally pull away, but I know I cannot leave her to awake alone and afraid of the night.

Wrapping myself in her dressing gown I wander into the living-room, the trappings of our night look dirty and discarded, the overflowing ash-trays, the cd's we had listened to, her nearly empty bottle of Vodka which I snatch up and pour the fiery liquid down my throat, swallowing my own despair. All around her chair are crumpled tissues, her spent grief on the floor. My own tears flow freely, I cannot go, instead I take the remains of the bottle and sit by the bed, afraid to leave her for long.

My mind now numbed by drink and endless cigarettes, my body stiff with cold, once again I lie beside her. Finally I drift into sleep, but not before her eyes briefly open and lock with mine, "I dreamt you had gone and left me alone, maybe she is talking in her sleep, but as I kiss her briefly on her cheek she enfolds me in her warm embrace.
I may have imagined it as sleep drags me down, dawn-light is peeking through the curtains as she says, "I'm glad you chose to stay."

Lisa Fuller. April 2005.