Whispering Of Him Poem by Natasa To

In the hush between two heartbeats,

when daylight loosens its golden thread

and evening folds the sky in indigo silk,

there is a whispering of him.



It moves like wind through half-closed curtains,

soft as breath against a waiting ear.

Not loud enough to claim the room,

yet strong enough to change its shape.



The whispering of him

is not made of words alone—

it is the memory of fingertips

tracing constellations on quiet skin,

the echo of laughter

still warm in the corners of the walls.



Sometimes it hides in ordinary things:

in steam rising from untouched tea,

in the slow ticking of a patient clock,

in the space beside me

that remembers the weight it once carried.



It gathers in my chest like a secret tide,

pulling gently, insistently,

until even silence begins to speak

in the cadence of his name.



Oh, the whispering of him—

it is silver and shadow,

ache and ember,

a song too tender for daylight

but brave enough for the dark.



And though the night keeps its distance,

though the stars pretend indifference,

they lean closer than they admit

when the whispering of him

finds me again.