My love, by night, attempts defenestration;
I simply cannot fathom what the cause.
It presents a grave concern - a consternation -
Most notable when staying on high floors.
When not walking in his sleep, he's often talking,
Though I can recognise no waking theme;
It must be that my love slumbers so deep
He knows not that he's speaking but a dream.
When not walking, talking - snoring - why, he's moving!
An arm, a leg, being never where it should.
The constant plague of limbs forever proving
That I should wake him up and say "No good!"
So to the door my lover must be shown,
That I may do some dreaming of my own.
* Background reading is the completely unrelated "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" by Haruki Murakami
