Late at night the whispers drive me mad.
She isn't here yet, but I don't know where there is or else I'd find her.
Though, when she whispers I still here her, and I'd like to think that's me in her dreams 'cause it's her in mine. Leaves will shine and rot beautifully before the whispers stop and the real ones begin.
The one's when we're in a movie theatre, and I'm into the movie and she's been watching me for two minutes already, and sick of waiting for me to turn to her, whispers in my ear. Or the one, where she's hurt or scared and all inside my arms, and I whisper to her. Or the one where we're making love, and it's tearful, and we whisper our way to the finality of orgasm. Or the one where we whisper our prayers together in bed. Or the one where we have to whisper, or we'll wake however many kids we have. Those are mine and hers and one day they'll be ours. Ours would be tomorrow were it up to me, but something has precedence and she stays in my head, and maddens me to sleep.