The Tea Kettle

At first it was just the sound of chirping. I thought: orange beak, flimsy pink, and a skull you could pop like a grape. But, baby birds sleep at night, so it didn't make sense. Eventually it panned out, stretched like taffy, their skulls turned into one long silver line of sound that grew in pitch as it thinned to just a silken spiders thread. This fat bird was speaking to me from the other room. When I came near it slid up next to me and whispered in my ear, breathing hot, humid secrets down my neck. I couldn't help but to close my eyes and let it kiss me, drip down on my shirt, flatten my hair against my skin. And, just like that, it was over. The kitchen light shone a white period on its black surface. The beak had lost all character, all of its seductive flair. I was stunned and slightly embarrassed. A breeze through the window told my skin a cold truth:the affair was over. The bird had flown.