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.