Two Poets

They came for us one day;
I hid behind the buttons-
Q, W, E, R, T.

He turned, walked away-
walked to the furthest room,
the room with one door
and no windows.

                                                 There had been nights when we'd
                                                 played lovers, me and him;
                                                 I, perched on his 'window', would sing
                                                 and he

Q-W-E-R-T-

                                                There had been nights when I'd
                                                flown in through the window,
                                                a sparrow and hovered
                                                for a moment to see
                                                what they call an eternity.
                                             
                                                I'd been rain on some nights
                                                and a snowflake on others,
                                                falling, dropping, giving in, dying.

                                                It was beautiful-
                                                our being perfectly free.

Then one day,
they came for us.
We weren't found, of course.

I still hide behind the buttons
and he lives a windowless existence.
I don't knock, not me.