The wind whispers stolen words
taken from us —
now lost in the quiet —
echoes like moonlight
twirling on glow-in-the-dark pajamas.
I swear I remember the night
we first spoke, the words
tucked in my pajamas pocket
so I could dream
more soundly in the voiceless dark.
We don’t call the wind thief
nor begrudge its bluster
for we often find ourselves
speechless on nights when
we come together as mirrored souls.
All her words stay with me,
hoarded away so they’re mine
& ensure she is
not a muffled muse –
she shouts me into existence.
© 2021 | Phillip Knight Scott
Weekend Writing Prompt #235 – Mirror
Often Mumbled Musings 