I heard something in a cafe today which made me write this

And you don't want to see me every day in case it spoils it

The first time I caught you with your eyes closed
watching your favourite programme there was something
about the way you were sitting, almost startled, which made
me ask. You told me it was some sort of compromise

for the time its possible to waste in front of the TV screen,
wearing your eyes out needlessly and shortening their life
inside your head. I didn't ask, then, any more of your
explanation but I've often wondered if it works. I test it

especially at work, but find it difficult to stave off sleep
without a particular strength of coffee first. I wonder now
whether it works for other things, and often stop myself
from seeing you at all, in case what we have runs out

before its time, before we're old enough to pluck each others'
out-of-reach grey hairs. It's too easy to sneak a peek for all
your stoicism on the sofa. Sometimes I catch you blinking
back the sight of characters who've aged consistently without you.

Mostly, though, I watch your closed-eyes vigil with my own eyes
open, wearing them out on you and your quiet, secret, snoozing.