I lean; open the window, to feel the breeze rise up through my chest, and touch my cheeks. Dogs wander; they rule the streets in the darkness below.
As sirens pass, I lay in bed, in arms that once protected me. Now; harbingers. Of pain. Of fear. Of broken promises. They serve as snares that entrap me.
And if you were to ask me why I shake in your arms in the night, I would confess it was the cold of the open window. Convinced you are satisfied with the explanation, I would return to cry myself into sweet slumber.