Privacy Visits Me At Night

At night
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.
Is mine?

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.

by Amy Marie

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