There Is No One Home But Her

There is no one home but her, And my shadow lean stands out upon the wall. My boxer's that she wears are but a door, The back door that I have come to know to well. Through the window in her room a blinking star, Distracted by the light, I do not think the moon is full by touch, I feel it is. I hear that all to familiar hum and what it is, An early winter orange that is sour to the tounge. In her guilded bed of yellow bronze, dead a sleep. Over incoherent moan's Warm and still her body moves and the vibrator, I hear it is still on.