would be the loudest, or in the
shower through the walls that
weren’t quite thick enough.
I would catch you in church
when everyone else was
singing too. My brother and I
would sit in the pews while you
stood and softly sang along,
unaware that we were
old enough to notice
the beat you tapped onto
the wooden benches.
Best of all was when we
were sleeping,
or when you thought we were.
I would lay beneath the sheets
with your hands in my hair and
let your melody wash over me,
lull me awake with the desire to
hear more.
Your words were never enough
because they were always too much.
But in the rare, private moments that
I found you singing,
I would wish you were bold
enough to let me hear you.