The birds are calling.
I can hear them chirp your name.
The birds are calling
for the end of this game.
They circle the silence,
soft but insistent,
like messengers that know too much.
Each wingbeat feels like a reminder,
each note a thread pulling at memory’s edge.
They call from the window, from the sky,
from somewhere between here and heaven —
and I can’t tell if they’re singing you home
or warning me to let go.
The sound fills the air like confession,
half prayer, half surrender.
And I wonder if you hear them too,
wherever you are —
if the same song follows you in your sleep,
guiding you to the light
the way it haunts me in the dark.