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.