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?
Copyright © 2014 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved