Everything played out in Legato fashion.
It began when we locked our gazes for a second.
Delusional as it sounds—a second that was a millisecond in reality,
To lock something in that timeframe with a key,
I must have been born yesterday with that naivety.
But I would butter this plain white bread with an accusation.
I've caught your gaze many times, red-handed.
And I've caught myself in the act, empty-handed.
It's as if you've glazed my eyes with pink in that first millisecond.
A glaze that used to be my bestfriend's remnants.
My sight would frequently land on you in this room.
Where I enter, you leave.
Where you enter, I leave.
When I steal glances at you upstairs,
And you take it back downstairs.
I don't know what it is in me to look at.
Nor did I know what it was in yours.
But that's something I've found out.
And these are the words I can't say through my mouth.
Your voice speaks of substance.
Stuttering at times but never losing its stance.
Your eyes share those gazes.
It's attentively putting me in a haze.
I was a listener before I'd even heard of your singing.
I acknowledged your presence before I'd even found your beauty.
What was once just a pretty sight turned into a muse.
I wanted to play the piano to your violin.
I wanted you to be the muse of my painting.
These are the words stuck at the tip of my tongue.
And I wonder if you have songs for me in your heart, unsung.
I've left the opera and have been hearing the melody outside.
The traces of its notes followed me far from the four corners where they should have abided.
Everything played out in Staccato fashion, looking back.
Our gazes locked.
My feelings are stuck.
I can never go back.
It's a lot to unpack.
There is no key to unlock.
