It is the middle of winter,
A time where birds migrate to the South
for warmth.
And yet with the window cracked open we
let the cool breeze in
Warmth of the room escapes, letting the
cold air take its place
Whistling through the cool breeze,
their cries fluttered the room of silence.
We recalled the utter strangeness of
the sound.
Why are their birds in the middle of
winter?
Lying there in silence, I thought of
that question
The high pitched cries sound of
desperation
Almost as if they are crying for help,
for anyone who will listen.
Aside from the nosy commotion of the
cars driving up and down the street
Their gentle cries are all I hear.
I tune out his voice to avoid his desperate
conversation and pretend to fall asleep.
The bird’s high pitches are continuing
one after another now in a repeated motion
Louder than they were before. But no
one seems to notice this time.
It is only me. Why me? Could this be a
sign? Some kind of warning?
Leave now.
Yet, I stay.
I close my eyes and pretend that I am
somewhere else.
With the bird’s cries as my background
music, I dream of the summer days.
The warm breeze against my face, the
long nights I spent with no worries of the consequences that would follow.
Just happiness.
But life isn’t that perfect. Or at
least not always perfect.
The night is always what protrudes the
sadness that is hidden throughout the day.
A time of realization that my actions
are only hurting rather than filling that void.
And yet, here I am again back to
reality with this person of no interest. A person that will soon fade.
My desperate ways look to have gotten
the best of me, again.
Have led me to his room on such a late
night
Like the birds, I’m crying for
attention, for anyone, for love.
