One of those you write in the dead of night when you're shaking with tears
and everyone else reads it and goes, "Hm. Not bad. I get the feeling there was something going on here."
...There was something going on here.
this is for the tiniest strings in the piano
and the intake of breath between them;
for the drops of the ocean we soak in
and our frantically closed eyes, as we desperately seek
ascension. this is for the cries that were never
quite loud enough; for our heavy breathing
as the chills run up our spine in perfect time-
perfect rhythm, perfect meter, perfect realization
in every exponential blink as everything becomes
more. This is your story, etched
in my fingers, betrayed by every tremble
and This, this is for you, who I hear
in your intertwined songs, for everything we ever did to you
and everything you ever gave to us, in a night as cold as this
when the world could not scream loud enough
and the visions streaked in blinding flashes
that make this, our everything,
spin. maybe I overdramatize
and so do you, to build, to swell
to crescendo and fall, fall,
fall. This is the story that no-one knows
and this is for you, my lost and silent friend-
for you and all the other souls
who knew, who know, who might have known-
for that poet, that artist, that lover, that mind;
your damned, tragic, terrible beauty; your
every inch of bittersweet passionate, powerful, insane
and absolutely vivacious life-
this is for all that and all the things I do not comprehend,
like the nothingness we all fall into, someday:
this, my moment
when all the strings on the piano are struck at once
and fall into the sea. with the utmost love,
