Whisper

Waking with a mouth full of fish hooks, I've learned to hang on the way she says my name. In the mornings, I lie with her, Our bodies two halves of an orange, The first rays of light painting patterns across her chest. I whisper Love spells disguised as poetry And tell her language always fails us when we need it most. Last night I stood naked in the kitchen. Frozen in the light of the refrigerator, She traced crosses on my back with honey And hummed church hymns in my ear like lullabies. Her voice sweeter then the honey And warmer than summer sun. It was then I knew we could coexist. I could breathe the same air she breathed And not feel starved for oxygen.