Somniloquy

September 7, 2012

Somniloquy

i.

My head still rests

on your chest, and I think

you’ve fallen into sleep.

I can hear very clearly

each breath you take;

the movement of air

creates a slow, deep resonance

in your lungs and in my ear.

The sound is low and grumbling:

a thunder reluctant to cross the gray

cloudy sky, sad to signal

the impending autumn.

The slight rain, though, is cool against

late summer’s heat – quick

and cold, its song

awakens the skin, and I can

feel

       each

               drop.

ii.

A murmur escapes your lips.

it’s just a whisper, but suddenly

I am filled with a longing to know

what you’re saying, what secrets

or lists you’re reciting from.

I want to understand your idiolect,

write definitions for your personal lexicon,

transcribe the orthographical patterns

of your sleepy speech.  I could map out

the acoustics of every apical consonant,

the irish fricatives and african clicks –

sounds all strung together, or perhaps

clipped short by your teeth.

I want to imitate your fine-print

tonal shifts until I’m tongue-tied.

I want to decipher this rhapsody

of vibrations in the air,

interpret this revue of breath

shaped by your throat and your mouth.

You mumble on for a bit, and then

you’re quiet again, breathing in

and out,

low and deep.

I’m left with a moment of wonder:

a strange and lovely sensation,

like a small glimpse

of pages filled

with someone else’s words.

iii.

The smooth, even cadence

of your heartbeat, at least

seems to say love you,

love you,

love you,

and maybe this is only me hoping,

but I don’t think that’s sleep

talking.