No sight quite compares to sleep,
tension floating up past his forehead,
the wheels at last grinding to a halt,
hands slackening their grip against the notebook,
the raging choir in his head quieting to a murmur in harmony,
eyeballs roaming one world in which I am not privy,
the soft cotton of his shirt pressing into my shoulder.
Even Caesar slept, and dreamt.
It betrays unusual fragility,
the slightest twitch of the thumb,
jaw clenching and relaxing,
every flutter beneath the eyelids,
each unknowing sigh.