I squint, and even though I oddly see you tiny

and distorted through the peephole, I can make out

her standing singing in the middle of the living room.

In that moment I know there is no one to despise more

than someone who secretly observes and loves a woman

who believes she’s only singing for herself. The penalty

for such a crime would be your hair as snakes turning

me to stone for breaking in on your secret sermon to

the moon. I hear her every night, from the house across

the stream, and with objectivity, I think her the best

singer I’ve ever heard, with a little rock, some country,

but the blues, what pain – the turn of gravel. All of it

puts me in a semi-coma of desire, and my soul finally

forced me finally out and up to your door under the stars,

to watch but not disrupt, who you are, and you are I

believe beautiful, standing there, although I can hardly

see you still.  I would knock but the spell she puts me in

would be broken, and as stone I would shatter before you.

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