“His hair is mmpl.”
“His hair is what?”
“His hair is mmpl.”
I will never know
what word describes his
hair, and so I change
my tack. “Whose hair?”
“Edwin.”
“Edwin? Who’s Edwin?”
“My teacher.”
You take no classes. You
have no teachers. I know
you are talking in your
sleep about someone you
won’t remember when I
ask you later.
I love that I know,
whoever Edwin is, he is
not a lover or a secret
or a problem.
I love knowing where
you lay your head each
night and where I
lay mine.
I love knowing that you
trust me so deeply even
your subconscious
tells me all.
Published by Deb
Teacher, Writer, Interfaith Minister
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Deb Moore 