I call to you in whispers
when I flick off the lights
and turn my blankets into a cocoon.
Maybe you’ll hear me one day.
If not, at least I can say that I wanted to find you
and my hands that brush my lips to pull my blanket towards my face
will tell you the same story –
a night does not go by that I don’t whisper to you.
The shadows expect it of me these days;
they wait to hear me call to you
and artfully etch my words with inkless golden feathers
onto my bedroom walls.