Inner voice

How I long to hear your voice,
that simple tremor matching mine.
A little discussion,
lot of procrastination,
a world of conversations to share.
A simple dream,
pedestal-ed in rich cream;
See the world through new eyes.
Mellifluous in depth,
pulling at heart strings.
They ache at memories that sing.
Like a child in a cupboard,
your voice is my scabbard,
to it I, my life, bequeath.
What’s done is gone,
That’s not new or profound,
yet, around you I’m wound.
Call me again.
I won’t falter or restrain,
in your arms once more,
I find myself.