The Night Whisperer
I laid my heart
against the brightness of this board that is my
computer. I have
enough energy, time and
space to unlock the typos of my
aged mind. But again, I hear
the scraggy stilettos whoosh above my head,
pirouetting for a step that can juggle with my
sigh. Typing my next emotion, these skeeters--
torturers of my lushness would turn to each other
and talk (though I forbade them) that my typing is
slow and not been that easy. So, I put impatiently
the weightless hands of hour ‘tween us. And after, I
have collected their remains from cold floor, I realize
my wife’s watching me from a mystic island of sleep.
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