The skies are dark and my eyes are heavy.

I think of her on days like this.

Better in bed than driven indoors.

I watch her eyes and stroke her hair

as she speaks of the future.

‘It’s supposed to rain,’ she says.

Storm clouds roil over us.

Sky borne somnambulists,

stalking the air, boding.

I whisper nothings

into the nape of her neck

and ask her,

‘Do you like the way that sounds?’

She just sighs amid the silence and lies.