Part 3: Night-Singing Nightingale

Last few days, I felt as if “A” was watching
From afar, never approaching front porch
Flowerpot. Poor child, I imagined, flirtations
Of young love, where life was not enough or
Too much, at times all at once. What fervid
Passions bring human happiness? None? Of
Love, I have supped and died dozen times.

To catch a mouse (or rat?) bit of cheese was
offered, my letter left under porch flowerpot,
Pastel blue paper, envelope, touch of perfume,
Sweet-scented memories, warm starry nights,
Now vanity drawer revealed. “Of your letters,
My heart has pondered, impassioned pleasures
Read aloud. Afraid how love betrays heart

And flesh, I have not sought your hiding place,
Until now. Where are you, my night-singing
Nightingale? Will we love as I have imagined?
Or are you some shameful, changing shape?
Secrets shared, in bed I was once malleable as
Clay. Thus, I shared something of myself, barefoot
wandering nearby grove of trees, our meeting

Place if you agree.” Of these versed lines, I read
Aloud, Will elusive “A” use them to ensnare?
Evening light, sheer gown, I stepped from door
To porch flowerpot, telltale scraping heavy glaze
Upon stone, Senses disarray, how will I endure,
Wondering, waiting, wanting? I know her not,
Yet I burn afire, lyre longing to be plucked. 

Thanks for reading. 

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