Love and Words

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music reminds me of you

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Music reminds me of you, 

which is funny 

because it is something 

we never did together, 

sit and listen 

twined in each other's arms 

as someone else got it right. 


Since I met you, 

I have been 

building this secret collection 

of music 

and rhythmic selections 

that bring you back to me 

when you are not here. 


Somehow, 

I still can't tell you 

how quickly you have become

something, someone, 

for whom I would risk 

coming undone. 

Lacking the ability to tell you, 

I keep time with the music 

hidden in my mind, 

so my need for you 

will never intrude 

unless you invite it in. 


And each night, 

after still nothing between us 

but haunting suggestion - 

a slow boiling 

we only let go so far 

as to rattle the lid, 

I find myself alone in my room

swaying to our unplayed tune,

my arms held open as if 

within them you rested, 

and my feet small engines 

to propel us along. 


Music reminds me of you, 

although it is something we 

never shared. 


Except for that time 

you took me to the park 

and we lay on a blanket

pretending 

we were there for the band. 


We hadn't touched yet, 

hadn't kissed, 

and the music was a hum

somewhere below our hands. 


It was never someone else's 

song I wanted to give to you, 

but a solo recital 

of the music you wrote in me.


Yet all we managed

to ever bring into the air 

were words, 

words on pages, 

words that slapped and ground,

words that gave us no rhythm 

to follow as we motored around.


Words that like stones 

stacked between us 

'til the wall was so high

it could not be overcome. 


I would sit,

leaning against 

the hard coolness,

listening for our music, 

but finally, 

it was gone. 


I couldn't hear you, 

nor you, me. 

Our stones 

were so thick and heavy. 


Miles and months have past,

the sand is now the sea, 

and that distance between us

has become a real thing. 


There are some nights, 

when the air is cool 

and the moon just right, 

that the music floating 

makes me almost believe 

that you are near. 


And I find my arms rise 

and form 

a shelter to hold 

something that is 

no longer there, 

my feet propel me around,

solo sequence performing 

to memory's hum. 


Music is all I have left ,

of the symphony we started, that I 

will never forget.

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decagon          poetry 

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