Postcard 4

Invent a secret language
   just for us
   and
Whisper it to me in conspiratorial tones
Let the sound barely touch your tongue
As it dances past your teeth
I will have to listen closely
So I do not miss a single word
For every last syllable
Must be recognized
Else the meaning is lost
To the wind that blows
Between the space that
Separates
The border of me from
The border of you