Jovet Philippa Turyatunga
Dear one,
I can’t sing for you like
in the movies –
where moms hum to their little ones.
I’m too shy for that,
too quiet in the places that count.
Nor can I read you a bedtime story,
it’s not my forte.
My voice stumbles where paper flows.
And I can’t hold you long enough,
to calm the storm inside your mind.
All I can do
is type.
Text.
Offer words in place of warmth.
It’s what life has made of us.
Love, digitized.
But if these lines can find you,
and soften your night.
Then maybe this, too,
is a kind of lullaby.
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