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Wrong

  She sleeps like nothing's wrong in the world. As if nothing's wrong with her, as if nothing's wrong with me.
  Her head on my chest, against  my beating heart, her arms around me, her fingers intertwined with mine; her eyes softly closed, her lips slightly open, a little blooming smile on her cheeks. The bed is all warm and there's darkness floating all around us.
  She sleeps like nothing's wrong, but there are people walking homeless, hopeless, endlessly right there on the street outside our door. There is war surrounding us. There are children dying of thirst. There is me with her. And I don't love her anymore.

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