Pillow Talk

 

Pulling away from our intimate embrace,
my lover gazes into my eyes
saying that when we marry
my bedroom should be in the basement,
it would be perfect for me,
cold, dark, and silent
the way I like it.

But a basement is not the only cold, dark, and silent place.
A prison would do as well, but not the yard,
warmed and kept bright by the sun,
full of shouts, blood boiling, hot blood being spilled,
and not the showers either, filled with heated fluids,
and not even a cell, far too full of people.
The perfect place for me would be
solitary confinement.

A crypt is cold, dark, and silent too. While
also full of people, none of them would bother me
as all that remains of them are stones and bones
tucked away beneath the earth in coffins, in tombs,
all of them having met with Death, some of their souls
and all of their bodies accepting his quiet,
eternal embrace.

Outer space, too, is cold, dark, and silent.
Perhaps I should sleep among the stars

 

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