The Nighthawk

each night, you pass under the streetlights.
and for a moment, a small moment, you are illuminated.
why do you pass by at such hours?
1am, 2am, further and further and further into the night.
what keeps you up when all is is deep asleep, in a heavy slumber?
Is it thoughts?
or is it something else...

I watch you from my window, my tired eyes finally catching a glimpse,
clutching onto the familiar sight like an infant to a bottle.
what is your story? of all streets, why mine?
do you live here? are you coming home from work? where are you from?
why, dear nighthawk, do you show?
why do you take to the streets?
is it the fresh night air? the absence of life?
what?

how I long to meet you, hear your reasons.
why the same tattered black sweater, hood pulled over your head,
why the muddy black shoes leaving a disappearing trail behind you
the familiar clunking of your heavy soles alert me, the scrap of your footsteps

it has become my alarm, that you still exist, my dear nighthawk
each night I try to stoke up the courage to call out to you,
and each night I never find enough.
i search deep, the anticipation ravaging my life
i ache to meet you,
maybe tomorrow, my dear nighthawk,
maybe tomorrow.