YET AGAIN

She reads to him every night,
her eyelids as gummy as bread dough,
the words trickling out like wooden soldiers,
precise, regimented,
inflection as faded as bleached wallpaper

And his eyes locked on hers’
seeing but not hearing;
or hearing but not seeing,
watching the words form on  her lips
like ice crystals on glass.
His legs stir beneath the covers,
more reflexive than enthralled

She suppresses a yawn,
repetition surrendering to boredom,
the story unchanging night after night,
like the stars in the evening sky,
permanent and familiar,
yet unattainable in their scope

She bookmarks the page in the book,
knowing it matters not to him,
each page the same as the last,
the spoken words just one more exercise
of synchronicity between larynx and lips
but it matters to her,
for each passing page
is a measure of her own sanity