Anxious Birdsong Lips

The ashes of your cigarette
float in wisps to the floor,
settle into the rug and 
burn slow.


I open the window
-you shiver with
the breeze running
down your chest.


A twist of sheets in
your small apartment.
The mirror across the
room showing in reverse
our bodies- made
up of cosmic dust.
Our lefts now right,
your half is now mine.


I will take you
and make you
into me. Give 
my right side 
to you. 


Together we listen
for the night calls
of birds,
but only sirens 
return our anxious whispers.


Frightened by
the omen
we brush our teeth
for three long minutes,
bent over the 
small white sink
which leaks to the 
crackling linoleum.


Our rabid mouths
not speaking,
for if we rid
ourselves of this 
illness we would speak
in tongues. Sweet birdsong
dripping from our pink lips.


In return the sheets
are chilled, our celestial indents
cooled and cemented
as we unravel the nest 
of linens to brood in.


My right again my own,
your left wandering 
elsewhere.