The soft creak of a bed

And the give of a mattress—

A time and place where the day learned to die

And we are left alone

Our sanctuary, our haven,

A ritual of quiet and caresses 

To be breached only when night falls


Sounds, primal, fall from your lips

Not of any language of the earth

A crypt for words is where we lie

Yet I murmur still, 

Knowing the futility of hoping

Yet wondering if you will be able to answer back


The night pushes the words away

And you tug me closer

A hand on my wrist for want of a hug

The clicking of tongue for want of sleep


Quiet, it is quiet

With the blankets above us

And the stars beside us

The moon glistens, watchful eye over dreaming children

Bringing peace not found in day


Seventeen years for me, eighteen for you

Bound by blood and chance

Silence beckons unpleasant thoughts


A rustle of blankets and I leave,

One last stroke of hair, a whisper unheard

To speak for the one who can not speak himself

A woman of words to speak for a man of none,

From you, a legacy is derived

For you, a future to be made



This poem is about: 
My family


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741