In the whisperer of the nights breeze in the murmur of words she softly said I knew she wasn’t really dead in the movement of the trees outside, with their leaves the way the photo album opened with ease the noise of your footsteps chased me to bed dreams of you linger in my head I am left longing for you to tease things I swear move on their own sometimes i can hear the rattling of plates I am never ever left alone I am the man who sits and waits hearing the noise of the television drone I hear your voice it communicates.