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.