Summer Cicadas

Do lovers  
from my past  
look on from  
the corners of  
this borrowed room?  
Do they stare  
with envy or longing  
at what once  
existed in their lives?  
 
Why do they  
murmur so? Are  
they commenting  
on our performance  
or stumbling for
words of introduction?  
 
These whispers  
of past lovers grow  
like summer cicadas  
covering the sounds  
of our unsacred union.