In the whisperer of the nights breeze
in the murmur of words she softly said
I knew she wasn’t really dead
in the movement of the trees outside, with their leaves
the way the photo album opened with ease
the noise of your footsteps chased me to bed
dreams of you linger in my head
I am left longing for you to tease
things I swear move on their own
sometimes i can hear the rattling of plates
I am never ever left alone
I am the man who sits and waits
hearing the noise of the television drone
I hear your voice it communicates.