I may not be the biggest BAMF in the room at any given time, but I certainly try to be in the top three.

I've been in the theatre for over twenty years as a little bit of everything. Yes, I have welded upside down from a second story set in nothing but gauzy underwear half hour before a show opened. I prefer to keep my hair purple. And I run very quickly in four inch heels.

I blame newredshoes. It's totally her fault I have been listening to If Poems all morning, and damn Tom Hiddleston's Shakespare readings!

I should be writing comic book write ups and my deep thoughts on Why An Ant-Man Movie Annoys Me (Can't Black Widow or Ms Marvel Punch Him Instead?).

Clicking send before I get too terrified.

***

[Untitled]

if music be the food of love, play off
your silences are more my companion
than your poetry and songs
(The dog does love your singing, my love;
myself? Ah... you are very kind to share)

your restless hand across my back in the night
is equal a comfort to your snores (though, I may smother you,
know that i love you, and there is no other I would want
to drool across my hip)

I long for the press of your chest against my back
in the shower, and the unintelligible mutter of good
morning against my neck (don't worry:
love is setting the coffee maker on automatic)

if music be the food of love,
silence and quiet is its measure of truth, of age and trust,
of the lengths I would go to hear your voice again
(even when it is to say, "pass the remote, there is a game.")

I miss your hands when you leave me,
but I want you gone as well. I want to hear your stories
of adventure when we are reunited (the servers had to be
restarted a third time, you say? damn them all, indeed)

tongue-in-cheek my love may be,
you are the last person I think of before I sleep,
the best person I have ever known
you are the music that lets my love grow

food of love, indeed
it is well: those footie travel kit shorts are tiny