#dusking
His whistling rises with the moon;
softened trills and murmurings
grow louder in the dusking sky,
drift across my ceiling, down
into my waiting ears.
A halo of satisfaction rings his face,
sweat drying on his chest
as he leans back upon my balcony.
I gather his things
and place them by the door.
I know this tune is not meant for me.
But I listen to it, still,
and dream of my hands
tangled in his soft feathers.
Who will sing me to sleep
when the nightingale is paired?
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:18 PM UTC