He is inundated by cords, traveling
on melodies. So consumed by
the sound of music as to forget
my hands on his body.
We always continue this long charade
of war games and hunting for the fox.
But why fight the warm bed or
the glass of wine I poured for him?
Sickend by the idea of getting used
To someone, of being exposed,
He presumes that freedom and
love live lives apart.
Then in the boredom of his morning
we will part, me with my words,
he with his sounds. And he will go off
to see the other woman who lives
just a few blocks away,
down the street.
