Calling

I feel foolish 

calling you my love 

when I hardly know you, 

but it’s what I do

in the evenings, 

staring into the night 

from the other side 

of my room’s window.

I stare so long 

that my reflection blurs

then disappears, 

shape-shifting into many faces — 

sometimes yours.

Tonight is so quiet, 

aside from the stridulation 

of a thousand crickets 

as I think of you, 

a mystery.

Males, rubbing their wings 

together, signaling their existence 

to females —

the only call I’ve gotten 

in weeks.