i've left the dishes be for once
and kept the counter full of crumbs.
i can't make order out of much -
tonight i'm nothing but a pair of thumbs.
i wanted poetry, or song,
i wanted words for telling.
but night has left me just as mute -
how can that be compelling?
all i know is, you are sleeping
and i am far too tired.
the blankets call my name like Sirens,
and only moonlight seems inspired.
it must be winter setting in,
some lucid frosted almost-violence.
i'll cut the lights and shut the door
and sing my love in silence.