I hold him close and lean into his whisper.

His thoughts like the place where heart and soul collide,

I feel his heart, beneath the wall he puts up sometimes.

 

And in the quiet,

the best kind of quiet,

I listen for the wanderings of his mind,

should they ever pass my door.

 

For when the sun rises the next day,

I fear he’ll find the brighter things than me.

I worry his infatuation would crumble at my imperfection.

 

But every time,

it’s his whisper that reminds me,

I’m the only person he lets close enough

to even hear it.