shake your hair back when we talk and we how odd that it should be what is this? now your closing my eyes, I am again somehow I do not know perhaps I would not have come, the music builds to a crescendo, I didn’t lock the door. perhaps if I had locked the door, Odd. All of it. Mollie
tuck tufts behind your ear
don’t let a smirk escape
your lips–that would be
enjoyment.
closed like shutters,
empty and withdrawn
like a rabbit in hibernation.
you hide another smirk:
you are not thinking of the
music.
why do you play?
I close my eyes and feel
the intensity of the emotion
as the waves of music
wash over me.
I close my eyes and
can still see you.
playing.
why?
pursing your lips,
casting awkward glances
at the conductor,
nodding your head as you move,
shifting in your seat,
absently drawing on the chords.
all there before the darkness
of my eyes.
I open them, half expecting
to see you gone, but you are
still there and the chorus
continues, accelerating
ever upward, spiraling,
and you play.
laugh, telling dirty jokes
and swapping tragedies–
why do I not see this part
of you? are you the artist,
or am I? I don’t feel like one:
these misshapen words
all that I can conjure while
you produce worlds
from your magic pouch.
you… here, in this place.
these pews of wood and stone,
the crucifix above you, and
I sit at the back,
almost not a part of this place;
and you do not see me.
perhaps you do, now
letting your gaze wander
about the church,
perhaps you spot me.
what is that look in your eyes?
weariness? anger? discontent?
head is bowed completely,
dull melancholy in eyes I
cannot see, but you soon begin.
transported.
passion in the music, in the
unspoken words erupting forth
from the mouth of a great
river.
if this place suits you. you
hide yourself well, tucked away
like your hair behind your ears.
you open your eyes
occasionally and let some
peer deep into your soul,
for a moment, before you blink
and the whirlpools drawing me inside
you are banished. you strike me as one hiding.
but I told you that I would, and so I did.
I wonder if I shall go to speak with you
afterwards, or whether I will slip out the door,
unseen. there might be something poetic in it,
i’m not sure what. I don’t know why I wouldn’t,
but then, why would I?
odd. I feel as if I’ve been speaking to you,
saying all these things to you these last few moments.
but I haven’t. Should I not show you this I’ll have
spoken the words and you’ll
not have heard them. It’s all a continuum, you know,
all of it.
mounting and mounting,
piling note after note upon a great heap,
until it threatens to burst.
do you?
I don’t now know why.
I was standing right there,
the door in my hand.
how easy it would it have been to reach
out and flip a switch?
perhaps the hand of God
prevented me.
you would not have locked your keys
inside.
then would you have ever known
how lucky you had just been?
something would have happened
that you would never see.
But so am I,
And you.