William Hromada

Patiently waiting

The night shifts.

I sleep lightly,

heart beating patient and low.

Three rooms away

your breath keeps perfect time.

I count it instead of sheep,

instead of hours.

Wind tests the window,

floorboards sigh;

my pulse answers calm:

still here,

still yours.

Nothing will break

while this small drum

keeps saying your name

into the dark.