Privacy Visits Me At Night
by Amy Marie
In the miraculous middle of the night –
My friend – called “Privacy” –
Creaks shut the concealed window of my room.
In the fragrant air out there
A plane’s sensual lights
Are hidden by the blinds –
But its voice is not.
Beneath layered blankets on my bed
Privacy and I busily bury our faces – yet converse.
She whispers to me
That my written work
Still emits a kind of perfumed scent
Of my personal history – my treasured yesterday.
I wonderfully wear the scent as well –
But can only attempt to bashfully bottle it
With a pretty glass bottle in my room.
Privacy and I glance over at it through
The tangible darkness –
With our almost matching eyes.