She quietly commiserates with your moodiness
And the low hum of commiseration carries into melancholic song
When she briefly sneaks out of your house of rage.
She listens, nods, and sighs
In tandem with your miseries
That are drowned out by a chorus of crickets in her head.
And she holds the tune
So she has something nice
For the hours she’ll spend locked in the bedroom.
She’s singing an old french ditty
When you come home drunk and angry with an itch to fight.
And she still mouths the whimsical words
When you punch her in the mouth
And scream at her to shut the fuck up!
She exhales the melody
Of the slam of the door as you leave,
Inhales your fist through the drywall when you return,
Carols to the gurgle of your first beer
And the malicious chortle of your tenth.
But those tunes slip away from her later
When you murmur, “I’m sorry, I love you.”
She knows why the caged bird sings
But at those pivotal moments,
She doesn’t want freedom from you.
She wonders why you’re like the radio
Playing rainy songs on rainy days.
She wonders when you’re going to play
Those three minutes of sunshine
Cause every day’s a rainy day with you.