You can hear me walking
     from your bed, where blankets
          are not enough to keep you warm.
It's a long night of snow, and sometimes
     and winter loneliness, and what else I do not know,
          but I am thinking if you can hear me.

Walking you might want to visit, to knock
     on my door with a story you have been waiting,
          days, months and maybe years, to tell.
Tell me something that cannot be told,
     and I will be in my worn bathrobe, or brushing
            my teeth, my hair, putting away things.

I have tea and muffins, a bottle of wine:  come up
     we will not swamp ourselves
          with anything like sex, yet.
I do not want to talk about the past,
     or work, or politics, but yes, kindness and compassion
     will do. Come upstairs when the floor creaks.

And, we will stretch the night slowly,
     because, I have not wounded you, 
          nor you me, because
The time of talking is now, 
     not tomorrow or the next day;
         when we are a memory of people who are not quite us.