once when we were speaking candidly in the car or maybe at breakfast I told you how much I love the you that comes out at night in your room, the Bogeyman beneath your glasses who leaps out of the shadows and, like a ravenous beast, topples me over to devour my tasty flesh —
you shrugged at my suggestion and I wondered if it ever occurred to you that your lust simmers so near the surface on those nights that smell so heavily of *** —
when I asked if you noticed any Bogeyman in me, you only admitted that I become more “blunt”, not commanding, necessarily, but straight-forward and concise —
it makes me think of those shivering nights without clothes when we haven’t made it beneath the covers yet as something like a ritual where we shed our daily roles and put on those of the beast and his master, where I conquer you and clean up your spoils, leaving only a slick orange sweater and a hasty a capella symphony, a prelude to sweet and somber slumber.