Like a silvery, specter of dread,
The words rise as from some dark and nether place.
"Let's rearrange the furniture."
Chills of unease
Race up and down my spine
Like ghastly greyhounds,
Harbingers of the ill will that is come.
Skeletal fingers tear the words from my throat,
"Yes dear, I'd love to help."
It is all lies.
Her sweet words sung like a nightingale
Clash with my concerted politeness.
What is to come.
What is that?
She desires my opinion?
This is not according to the script.
It is some sly method of deception
Designed to lend frail and imaginary
Vested interest to my horizons.
What, my dear?
Here is an accession to my idea.
This is definitely not according to the script!
What mystery here?
I am but the man.
Silent Oompa Loompa.
It is not my place to birth an idea,
Let alone tender one.
Oh, you meant over here?
Here comes the verbal lash.
I knew it would not last.
What are you laughing at?
Hah! I knew it!
You actually like it better where I put it?
A dim spark of hope gleams somewhere
In the depths of my repression.
Dare I ask?
Dare I suggest another idea?
Why yes, I dare!
I throw my crumbs amidst the feast of ideas.
A smile breaks triumphantly across the landscape of my visage.
This is fun!
She likes what I think!
Nay she encourages,
This is grand!
I am recognized as a partner,
A member of the band.
Not just a roadie.
Oh, joyous day!
I am not a drone,
A merely breeding male.
I am a person,
Wholly accepted in her eyes,
I have made my mark,
Set my seal,
Imprinted my hands upon the very concrete of our space.
Not in the face of derision.
Not in the stern look of disapproval.
In the joy of sharing fully.
This is not a house.
This is not merely a home.
This is our home!