The pillow that I whisper on
knows the story of my love.
It shares the private moments
when my heart controls my lips.
I have sworn it to full secrecy
insuring my words of the night
are safe from unwarranted ears.
The head on the pillow next to mine
holds these confessions sacredly.
Warming them within her open hearth,
where her heartbeat mediates the flux.
By the same token, her declarations
of love, have found a safe harbor in me
and they are the light that gently guides.
The chamber that houses those pillows
has absorbed love in massive amounts.
I swear, the room bathes us in a lullaby
that draws from our fire as we sleep
to whispers across time and space.
A true psychic shall never be admitted
to the chamber storing the wealth of
our love, lest the magic spell be undone.