"I hear the sounds around us, dancing and singing like the summer breeze that rolls past my window at night. My eyes flicker over the notes on the page and my fingers move to the beat. My arms sway as I play the most delicate instrument of them all.
"But even when I'm absorbed in the music, stricken by chords and shivering at each note that's played, my eyes still linger on you for a note too long. My heart misses a beat this time, I lose tempo under your gaze. My rhythm can only seem to match your's.
"A single note is struck. We grow quiet, and I quiver when the audience claps. I clap as well, but not for the music, for you. You are the masterpiece that has come to life. You are not written on pages like notes are. You are real. You are the prodigy's best song, and my highest melody. You are the end of the piece and yet you are still the very beginning. You are the silent note that drifts precariously and hangs there once all the music has ended and the audience has gone home.
"I hear the ringing in my ears long after you are out of sight and out of mind. If I could play you like a violin, I would play to only the heavens; the place where you are from."
YOU ARE READING
Excerpts
Poetry...from stories I will never write. Here are some things I would love to write in books but never have time to write.
