Outside the Window

He comes every night to the window and whispers his secrets. But the words rarely make it past the boundaries of my ears and I strain to hear, but cannot.

I long for him to speak my words for me, so that I can hear my name. To read the lines between the lines that I cannot see. Or sing the songs I've written for him in my heart, long before we built this house that he cannot seem to let himself enter.

And still he comes every night to the window and whispers his secrets. So I ask him if he cries for me, but he does not answer. I ask him if he calls to me, yet the reply is muffled and I feel him strain for an answer, or perhaps to prevent it. How they frighten me - those things unspoken.

What value do I place on truth, if I'd rather remain fixed on hopeful imaginings? Could one wish another's wishes into existence? Would it satisfy? Can a reflection soothe the spirit? Love is made full by the loving.

Yet he stands, just outside that window, and ever so faintly whispers the secrets I cannot hear.

© Rachelle

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