Music exists
In the space between us.
It’s tender. It’s wordless.
It’s sandy and ancient and
Foreign and awkward
and so fragile, like the
Gossamer tale of a Sufi poet. It
Touches me, lightly couched in
Khayyam’s verses, and all I want is
A word, a whisper and thou.
So many conversations build up
In the ether;
Building tension, but my affection is a
Turtle.
I want to be solemn and heavy, but
I shall force lightness upon myself; I shall
Be funny and frothy, and with my words
I shall chip away at your shell,
and live
From midnight conversation to midnight conversation,
And every night more music shall pour out
and dance
In the spaces between us, and perhaps eventually
Your shell shall wear down, and then
And then
I shall touch you.