The borrowed one

That little bird was chirping, disturbed by her voice , it looked down,
exaggeration wouldn’t be me calling it music, but her tune,
her tune that made the little flitter’s flattering flutter fail.
It wasn’t that sweet pitch that stopped the fowl, it was her quiver,
That little quiver when she tried to brush her hands against his,
the feathered friend moved to another branch, for a better view,
He against the wall, she against him, only in her mind,
not physically, not yet, she thought, as her cheeks flushed,
Blushing was not in her books, at least anatomically,
Her dark skin was lustrous than her silver earring,
The fowl noticed something else, a flower’s scent, not from the girl,
but the boy, his hand was hiding something, something pleasant,
a scented rose maybe? arose a scent of doubt,
the hug confirmed it, it was a proposal indeed,
she didn’t blink, he blinked for her, it was phenomenal,
Their age or background didn’t matter, or even the society,
as another bird landed near the cuckoo, and cooed,
He was 35 and had a dead wife, she was violated years back,
Their lips quickly met and left as they heard kids rushing out,
in the same nest, cuckoo’s egg cracked along with the crow’s egg.


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