My father was a somniloquist; he only talked to me in his sleep. Lured at night by his one-sided conversation one room over, I would escape the cot I'd grown out of, gaze at my sleeping mother, and
...
[+]
It's the way your words are melody
And your silences, siren songs, luring
Eurydice from the effigy she used to be--
Or else it's because she finds it reassuring
Your caress lingers-- and those fingers snake
Through her clothes, while those lips bite
Her lobes, and you make her thighs quake
With the ache of a venom she can't fight--
Or maybe it's the way you walk a bit too slow
When you don't know if she's watching, like you'll turn
Halfway back just to track if her eyes still follow
You, beat black and blue-- or whether they yearn
To return to the world that's been waiting beneath
Your apartment, police sirens, and her bridal wreath.
And your silences, siren songs, luring
Eurydice from the effigy she used to be--
Or else it's because she finds it reassuring
Your caress lingers-- and those fingers snake
Through her clothes, while those lips bite
Her lobes, and you make her thighs quake
With the ache of a venom she can't fight--
Or maybe it's the way you walk a bit too slow
When you don't know if she's watching, like you'll turn
Halfway back just to track if her eyes still follow
You, beat black and blue-- or whether they yearn
To return to the world that's been waiting beneath
Your apartment, police sirens, and her bridal wreath.