He recites his own poetry to me, not because he wants to, but by request

He's shy about it and doesn't want to appear too ego-centric

So I have to ply him with alcohol to loosen him up

He's so tightly wound, my Edgar is

So self-contained because he fears criticism

A few drinks relax him and he knows they will so he accepts

He's on the third verse now, softly enunciating

My fingers in his hair, his head on my lap

Staring up at the ceiling or the skylight, maybe both maybe neither

He begins to recite with his hands, attempts to drink from the wide mouth of his glass without lifting his head

A few drops are triumphantly seized by his lips and he tosses the glass aside

It rolls across the floor, a drum roll underscoring his maddeningly calm recitation

He speaks of the waters, he recites the wind

And when he sighs, heavy his sighs are for they carry the burden of his heart

Parched was his soul until he saw the light

And now the final verse, he speaks of a thirst

He raises a chalice, invisible and full

He cheers to his gods, written word and ink

Then he takes a long drink

And his eyes close as he's sated at last, and he falls into peaceful repose

He has drunk of a water that quenches all thirst

My love, he sleeps! Oh, may his sleep

"As it is lasting, so be deep!"