Tuesday, August 11, 1998


shake your hair back

tuck tufts behind your ear

don't let a smirk escape

your lips--that would be


closed like shutters,

empty and withdrawn

like a rabbit in hibernation.

you hide another smirk:

you are not thinking of the


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.



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.

when we talk and we

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.

how odd that it should be

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?

what is this? now your

head is bowed completely,

dull melancholy in eyes I

cannot see, but you soon begin.

closing my eyes, I am again


passion in the music, in the

unspoken words erupting forth

from the mouth of a great


somehow I do not know

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.

perhaps I would not have come,

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.

the music builds to a crescendo,

mounting and mounting,

piling note after note upon a great heap,

until it threatens to burst.

do you?

I didn't lock the door.

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.

perhaps if I had locked the door,

you would not have locked your keys


then would you have ever known

how lucky you had just been?

something would have happened

that you would never see.

Odd. All of it.

But so am I,

And you.

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