Half awake, I try and hear:
The hiss of the furnace
The scratching of mouse feet, or
the distant percussion of trashcans slam dancing fences

Tonight she wakes me to hear the rain above our ceiling
A low and persistent tapping sound
Thousands of fervent typists hard at work
Only slightly louder than her racing thoughts

Later, our fingers slide together
Finding the rhythm of the storm together
until the only sound is that long whispered

Shhhhhhh