she’s either fucking or fighting
and I find myself wishing I’d
ever felt something so deeply
my neighbors could hear me
through walls
and simultaneously grateful
no one has ever made me
raise my voice to the point of
cracking; my soul a broken dam
of drywall for strangers to
press their ears against.

on the off chance their ears
have pricked to my voice
it’s been for pleasure, self made
a ballad of yearning,
the frequencies major
the crescendos driving
but always a solo