Disembodied
Feb 12 2024
You hear the voice over the radio
and imagine a face.
Something to match
his gravelly manliness
crisp authority,
her girl-next-door
with a hint of a lisp
and low intimate pitch.
They always said
radio has the best pictures;
the theatre of the mind,
the imagining
that can't be helped.
But don't meet your heroes, they also say,
you’ll end up disillusioned.
I listened to her
in bed
fighting off sleep,
like a kid
who wants another story
before lights out
and the goodnight kiss.
Just me and her
in the dark
night after night,
her dulcet tones
whispering into my ear;
tucking me in
like a warm weighted blanket
on a cold winter night.
Not the girl-next-door,
but a femme fatale
toying with me
in that low smouldering voice
with its sure self-possession
coy intimation of sex.
I hope we never meet.
Except here
disembodied
listening in the dark.
No talking back,
no plans,
no rush;
just the face I imagine
floating above me
mouthing words that don't really matter
in a beautiful voice
only I can hear.
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