Think of that scene
in a favorite movie 
where a silhouetted couple
makes love while
the Eva Cassidy version of 
“Songbird” is playing
on the soundtrack.
It’s not as if the couple
is playing it on some
device or sound system;
it is as if it hovers
over the bed of its own accord,
unheeded by the lovers,
unnoticed except by 
the audience who
are not actually there
in the world of the film.
It’s all pretend
except for the sadness and 
the ache you may feel
for the singer’s death, or
the longing for the fantasy
being played out before you 
in the imaginary setting
of a perfect scene you can, 
if you so desire, enter
any time you have time,
pretty much any time
you choose to be, any time
that makes you weep, makes you
lust, turns you into
a chaste voyeur until you close
your eyes and begin to hum
or even mouth the words 
to the song, your eyes slowly closing
as always, yet also as never before.