He waits in patience for his loved one to awake,
for her curvy lips to part in smile.
He’ll kiss away the brown-red scabs
until they both just pass and die.

He’ll wait for the storybook fantasy,
for the patented one hundred years of sleep.
He’ll wait through age and ages until she awakens,
when he’ll know that all will be all right.

He will push aside the clear plastic tubing,
the rectangular shaped mouth piece that binds her breath.
He’ll give her his own mouth, his own lungs, his own air
to see her stir, then smile, then cry.

He will put his hands on either side of her head
and tell it to start up its work again.
Her eyes will flutter open, and she’ll gaze into his face,
the face of a lover, of a savior, of a prince.

He’ll hold her hand and will stroke her hair.
His tears will wet her gown.
His sleeping beauty awaits her prince,
and in one hundred years, her prince’s kiss.