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.
Lanning Lee 