My ear rests upon your chest.
As you breathe, I rise.
Like a sock on a clothesline.
My comfort is now bleached.
The distant sounds of locusts,
Sing in unfamiliar tongue.
Like REM, they too, have become over-played.
I memorize every useless bit of chatter.
Even though, I cannot begin to decode the meaning.
Nor want to anymore.
There simply is no place for perfect.
At a table set for five,
Only three are eating.
Like the locusts, I listen to the sounds of chewing,
Forks tap, tap, tapping away at the plates.
As if they were anything but…
Something to feed us.
Do we hunger for more than meatloaf?
More than the touch of a hand?
I admire the willow, and ponder if it even feels more than the breeze,
More than the rain,
Or even the spider crawling up its branches.
Like the willow, my hair falls like a blanket around you,
It covers up all these imperfections between us.
As I wait for you to rise and sing.