In the eaves of my nightly factory,
perched on insulated pipes are starlings;
my vulnerable birds whistle quietly
to the songs the radio is playing.
The shift progresses with each raised eyebrow,
flutterings take flight from within my heart.
On the ‘telephone wires’ the whistles grow;
a brown cloud above develops and parts,
breeds the makings of my lust’s exponent
- on the anniversary of our kiss -
the moments of your tongue’s searching movements,
the gentle nibbles on my lower lip;
I pay my respect with an hours silence,
an act that breeds more of these flightless birds,
- my heart filling the eaves in remembrance -
becoming a cacophony of words;
a bitter mix of your sweet distraction
and the torture of our reality;
never needed that kiss so much as this,
yet you’ve never felt this distant from me.