Hawk Visits

One wing under the edge of your pillow. Quiet is the order of the night. Your breath is a gentle breeze, ruffling my feathers. You don't snore and you smack a bit: It's an intriguing sound. Stirring now, stretching a calf muscle, your face is flushed, your nose pale. Eyelashes arranged like angelfingers, neatly, and the mere hint of a dimple lives on your chin. Your breasts rise as you inhale; how I would love to be with them, to love them. I curse the Gods who gave us forbidden things. And who gave us time, an entity of cruel deeds. Excuses have a knife-like quality; it cannot be what must not be. The rules are not for happiness as misery they always bring. And freedom is a penalty: By being free I hurt another. Contented cows, you must be happy, no conflicts to disturb the peace. I quietly now leave your bed and dream about the dimple on your chin.