Everyone is talking to themselves, and quite frankly,
I’ve grown to enjoy my conversation;
chitchat between the two, while the other emoting low, waiting, and waiting.
He: a bass in the voice has less, and less to say.
As she and her twin: a constant confab of the arrogant seducing caution;
seers whose control in their gaze, reach with decisive desire, so speak with vivid speculation.
“Get over yourself”
“Out of your head, with your hand into the world”
so I am assured: in the straightening of my stance, my softened intimidation.
And when the three sing in unison,
"Good Lord, the things we moan"!