Eaves Dropping

THERE'S A QUIET HUM UNDER ROARING CROWDS
I'M DIVING STILL BENEATH IT,
PULLING YOUR VOICELESS PROTEST DOWN
LIKE THE GUTTERAL, CONSONANT-HALTED VOWEL
OF AN ANCIENT HINDU MANUSCRIPT
THAT SEEMS TO MEAN MORE
THAN THE INK ON THE SKIN IS SAYING.

BUT REALLY, WHO DOESN'T HAVE SECRETS?
REMEMBER WHEN WE USED TO FUCK,
HOW WE SUCKED THE LIGHT OUT OF EVERY ROOM
AND YOU COULDN'T FIT A RAZOR BLADE BETWEEN US?
(BACK THEN MY LIPS WERE PRETENDING TO BE SOMEONE ELSE).

LOOK, I'M NOT ABOUT TO STEAL
A BEATING HEART FROM ANOTHER MAN'S CHEST--
I'M JUST TRYING TO GET SOME PERSPECTIVE.


THIS WAS THE "OVERHEARD CONVERSATIONS" PROMPT FOR WHICH I MOSTLY USED JUST A COUPLE PHRASES AS SPRINGBOARDS TO GET THE POEM GOING. AND YES, THE TITLE IS MY LAME ATTEMPT TO BE CUTE. IT KIND OF FITS THOUGH, I WOULD SAY. IT'S A WOMAN DEFENDING HER ACTIONS TO AN OLD LOVER. I'D LIKE TO THINK "EAVES" COULD BE EYELIDS LIKE SHE'S CLOSING HER EYES, TURNING HER GAZE FROM THE UNNAMED SUBJECT, MOVING ON TO SOMETHING BETTER. OR AT LEAST DIFFERENT.