Night's Sleep

[Brownlie]

His soft golden hair soaked slightly in a sleeper's sweat.
Caresses my cold shoulder as we are dimmed by artificial light.
His broad silhouette is hidden by black blankets, engulfing his form, distorting it from view.
He hunches his shoulders slowly while his is stirred from his slumber softly.
A part of tousled hair hangs across his flushed cheek.
His flushed cheek.
Painted by night's sleep.

Post comments. Also, your poem is redundant in places. As someone who has spent hours alone, toiling fruitlessly over words I am angered by whimsical statements that flaunt their shallowness. Beware poetry may make you bitter... If you dedicate some time to reading poetry and learning about it you can improve. Sorry to vent on you.