Her fingers search
For the tear
Along the knee
Of her stocking
Again and again
As she bites her lip
And stands on the steps
Watching the cars
With a sinking hope
As they pass by.
Forgotten again.
Just as you strove to let me see through your eyes, to paint for me the impossible, the abstract, with your brilliant command of language, languishing in the very inadequacy of a structure with limitations...so, too, will I fail miserably in capturing one of the most expansive conversations I have ever had.
So, instead, I thank you for being so present. Thank you for your willingness to describe for me your music in such a way that I was able to peek through your eyes for a moment. Thank you for gently holding the corners of the horizon and stretching it a bit for me. You are beautiful in your way and my night sang a new song because of you.
"The music is a connection to the yawning blackness and it IS the yawning blackness. It is to be horribly connected; 'horribly' connected because it is nebulous, that which you cannot touch or hug. Maddening is to desire and feel closer to that than any human in life, and yet it is the absolute closest you can come to making love to Divinity."
Death has visited my garden and I have pruned what once gave me joy.
My hands smell of hours spent in a funeral home beside the newly dead.
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