birds sing simple sometimes

it's simple.
it's quiet.
it's hope.
it's something.

sometimes, when the moon goes dim i wonder: what your lips on mine would taste like?
sometimes, when the stars sing their early morning songs i wonder: what your hand in mine would smell like?
sometimes, when the sun is playing peek-a-boo i wonder: what your arms wrapped 'round me would feel like?
sometimes when there is no light i wonder: why do i wonder these things?

other times, usually when the birds don't sing, i wait for you.
when they sing again, do you think we could find out?