At night he listens to her sing
from behind the wall-
the muffled sounds of a cappella.

Curious as to why her notes sound melancholy,
and why her voice
seems to waiver even through the concrete and stone.

He can still hear her frustration
as she hums these solemn tunes.
And he can hear her tiny footsteps tapping on the floor.

He wonders what she may look like.
An elegant bun
encompassed by loose hairs that curl at the nape of her neck.

Her alluring, deep tawny eyes,
similar to that of a doe,
are bare and not masked with makeup.

Her petite, thin figure
resembles a ballerina,
and is as dainty as a dandelion, dancing in the wind.

The fair skin that covers her body
shows no sign of aging, and
is scattered with freckles at her nose.

And the lips from which these sad melodies come
are of the sweetest pink
like strawberry stains on a white dress.

So he listens to her sing
until her footsteps move about,
and he hears the faint click of a switch.

And with that he turns his light off as well,
waiting till the morning to hear her muffled songs again.
And waiting for the courage to ask why she's so troubled.