Every noise is for you.
Sacred congregation of words;
a vast spectrum, and you are
the ghost. The things I whisper
when you sleep are real.
Tiny prayers for your existence.
An exhalation mantra, singing again
the glories of your skin, that small thatch
of thicket wire filament
your eyes contain.
I hear each song as a love scream,
reaching across oceans of silence
to find you again.