It’s not the roof, but the rebound of metal that exalts the voice of rain. I bolt up at the bounce of percussive tin and run as if I’m made of the midnight in this house. As if I’m already dreaming my way clear of danger. Outside, the moon admires a single cloud whose sigh lasts the length of a splinter.

The world sleeps through.

A lone owl cradles your lullaby in a golden canyon. Together, you unravel a whisper that rends the darkness like a wishbone, parting the ghost of tender memories, those soft remainders better left to a shocked-white sky. Without them, the night grows verdant inside your untroubled voice.

If I was a bird, I’d dream myself into a pair of winged hands just to know their warmth. I’d know your shoulder and wear the gleam of the sun.