...

Your voice sounds so fragile when you wake
Like a kitten's first whispered cry
Our footsteps are muffled as we try to tiptoe around the house
Even though there is no one else to wake
Maybe it's because the sun has not yet risen
We don't want to disturb it's sleep
The running water even seems more reserved
Turning to hot without any fuss or wait

The roads are empty
Only a lone van slowly patrols the streets
Dropping off bundles of newspapers on certain doorsteps
A jogger crosses us at a red light

We whisper quietly
It is the wee hours of the morning after all
Voices hoarse from too much coffee and not enough sleep
We tell stories, reveal secrets
The quiet of the morning seems to demand it

We laugh in silence
The radio is turned off
My hand, on the gearshift
So quiet.
So peaceful.
So perfect.

Save for the voice, whispering insistently in my head
I want to hold your hand