For the One I Talk to at Night

I listen to the rain falling outside, tapping against my bedroom window

as I lie snuggled beneath my comforter, warm against the damp night air.

The cat is getting on with her life at the front of my apartment;

I can hear her leap from the couch into the window

to watch the night critters that pass outside.

Sometimes, she wakes me as she does battle with a passing

tomcat, yowling with offense and punching the window

with her paws, lethal, scarring blows. That is, they would be

if her battle had not had the window to act as her shield.

Turtle is asleep on the other side of the room,

sometimes scrunched into her shell, other times

sprawled on the mulch in her box.

I lie in the dark, listening to my little family,

and think of you, the way the silver in your hair

shines, a galaxy of stars against the night.

You make me laugh and brighten my day. 

I recall the sound of your voice as you greeted your crew.

Good morning, angels, I heard you say and smiled 

as I began my own work. Your little team happily 

did your bidding because you managed to make 

the work lighter for everyone.

I imagine our conversations, mundane as hell --

(There are responses here, but they sound like

 a bass version of Charlie Brown's teacher.)

Do you think my book is okay?

Does it make sense? Will anyone like it?

Does my hair look okay?

Do you think my blue dress fits well?

And so it goes, a liberated woman, comfortable

with being by myself, yet too insecure to seek the company

of the man I've wanted for so long.  As I drift off to sleep, I imagine 

what it would be like to lightly trace the furrows in his brow,

easing his own worries away, and to answer the question marks

I see in his blue eyes with kisses. 

Maybe tomorrow.