muffled voices outside my window.
for most people this would be something to ignore.
it's just the neighbors.
in other cases perhaps it would be a cause for concern;
but not this. not me. not you.
because it's your voice I hear,
warm and smooth and bright and buttery
like Sunday mornings in December.
I want to open the window,
even though it's March
and freezing
and it's been locked shut for months.
I want to let your voice in,
let it trickle in, swirl around, envelop me in its warmth.
I want to let you in.
You.
but I don't know how.