He Speaks To Me Most

He speaks to me most, standing in my doorway.
Faint as smoke, just like that, a whisper only
a ghost.

I can feel, nothing upon my skin, only this familiar ache.
It's not what I want, but it's all there is
and so. I partake.

Words slip through unparted lips.
They float to me like smoke on water,
aboard tiny ancient ships.

Frozen to my bed, is this truly happening
or am I just mad?

Though speak to me with no end, even like this,
lest I wake, and bring forth,
the approaching day.