I’ve tried too hard to bridge this gap:
the space between my fingers,
vague, insipid emptiness,
the quiet, profound longing
of an unturned page.
you come to me with all the languor,
all the midnight captivation
of a cup of over-brewed tea,
a corset laced too tight,
a strict and unassuming wish for death.
somewhere in the world, someone
is unaware of your language, your
beauty, your music’s
arcane flutter: but that place is not here
and that person is not me.
here, I play memories
like a poorly tuned violin:
splendid, fearless melodies,
my violent, untamed love for you
lost in a Frescobaldian fugue.