Choo

The whistling choo,

ignites a million hearths.

My breath melts,

and settles in a sigh.

Your wet lips say,

what your eyes can hide.

The glances seem lost,

and the summer smells dry.

I reach to your core,

in a blind grope for light,

you nudge me a little,

and kibosh a fresh bird's flight.

I'll cleave you open,

give me a weary night,

farewell awaits till then,

the swollen heart tries.