I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.

Sometimes, I hear a song
through someone
else’s headphones,
 too quiet to name
 but loud enough to feel.

I never ask what it is.
Letting it stay anonymous
 feels more honest.
It’s not mine.
I was just near it.

A violin behind a closed door
  in an apartment I’ll never enter.
Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me
  like a rhythm nobody meant to write.
A man humming in the metro
  not to perform,
  but because he’s alone
    and forgot the world has ears.

There are moments I’ve been completely undone
  by a melody I never fully heard.

Half of it lost to the train.
Half of it blurred by walls.
But something in me
  was tuned
    just right
      to catch what escaped.

We think music is what’s played.
But maybe it’s also what passes through
      when we weren’t looking.
      When we didn’t try to hold it.
      Or name it.
      Or own it.