I remember those nights lying there alone,
since there was nothing better to do,
when the words would come to me —
like a doting parent, a monster
from beneath my bed, a guardian angel, a kiss,
They would tell me a story without making a sound,
not read, just known, not understood, but gospel.
And, like when I grew up, these parents left,
or I left them. The monster went poof and
now demons scratch their nails
across my consciousness. I sold my angel for
thirty pieces of fool’s gold and any kisses
left with you.
I am alone again, in a darkness beyond black,
waiting for words that don’t wish to share my bed.
So today I sit in this lonely place,
closing my eyes to the light and praying
for deliverance from the exile of my own making.
And here you are again, carrying this thing
I never appreciated. You don’t have to love me.
Just sit here by my bed until I’m asleep.
I never told you how much I love your voice.
I can’t hear you, but I’ll never stop listening.