Birdwatching

In alley-hung dusk, the rumors rise,
soft-footed syllables dancing in disguise.
Tongues behind doors, breath held in hush,
truth smudged by the hand of a hurried brush.

A name half-spoken echoes like prayer,
draped in perfume, smoke, and heirloom despair.
They slither, they curl, they bloom and decay
a vine of voices choking the day.

Lanterns flicker with flicks of intent,
each glow a story almost misspent.
The air tastes bitter, spiced with deceit,
and pavement remembers each secreted beat.

Midnight scribes on the walls unseen
etching myths in shadow between
old stone and echo, stain and grin
the uninvited tale that trickles in.

I chase the fragments, stitching their threads,
words like fireflies that dart from my head.
A chorus of maybe, of possibly true,
echoing things I almost knew.

Yet still I listen, I try to divine
the shape of a story that’s almost mine.
If I could speak them—not warped, not blurred
could I be more than just what’s overheard?

So tell me, rumor: are you mirror or maze?
A curse in velvet or a lyrical praise?
If I translate you, line by line,
will your song finally become mine?

Some moans aren’t longing, they’re warnings in lace,
a breath that trembles in velveted space.
Each secret trembles on the edge of a groan
not lust, but language carved into bone.

Curtains breathe tales in midnight’s tone,
confessions disguised in a barely known moan.
I hear not desire, but coded remorse,
each syllable riding a haunted course.

You think it’s pleasure, it’s actually plot:
a gasp concealing the truth you forgot.
A mouth half-parted holds myth and scheme,
soft notes tangled in a fever dream.

I translate the sounds that escape too fast,
the rumors in rhythm, the spell they cast.
These whispers don’t beg, they inform and conspire
a symphony smoldering just shy of fire.

So next time you lean to listen close,
know secrets aren’t hidden where you suppose.
They’re moaning, they’re mourning, they’re masked in delight
a language of longing that lives in the night.