Whispers hello as the first streams of sunlight inch their way in through their black chiffon veil, gleaming on our garden of stale breath, and down feathers.
Whispers goodnight as his proud freckles become the constellations outside my window, and the moon stretches her arms for another night's work.
Whispers sorry after his words became feather-lances jousting through my arguments until my armor was askew and torn at its paper seams.
Whispers tales of tomorrows and fortnights to come under illusions of rich greens, blues, and yellows he will finger paint on my forehead like a warrior.
Whispers goodbyes, sweet and forlorn, as he realizes promises and paints will not keep the morning from snatching his prized possession from his cotton laced roost, leaving him alone with just the rays of the sun to admire his tail.