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the trouble with us is
we’ve been chasing raindrops, dear,
dropping inhibitions like splattered
paint on the cloth of your favorite shirt,
or the reckless chant of a piano
out of tune, out of memory, out of time.
press the keys, make it hurt.
sing of the wind that blew away
your fears.
music’s got a way
of making you weary, and graphite
stains my skin silver, keeping these eyes
wide open. tired, like the stretch of letters
dragging along the page.
Where the words went, you wonder,
and if the sound was ever there -
but my tempera’s dried, cracked away,
and strings snap under your fingertips.
no amount of paper
could forgive the silent descent.
your crescendo filters away with years
of knowing where you’re going
and leaves the air cold in silence when you,
of all people, inch closer to what you seek.
i follow along, picking up speed,
wishing for Chopin and acrylic pigments
as we hit pavement.
i could never tell you
that dreams can be deceiving.
~~
Spoiler! :
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