The music plays softly,
but only in your eyes.
We have not heard what you know,
we do not know where you go.
You tell me you are glad I am here,
that you know I do good things,
then you leave.
Your delicate gait,
and your thousand yard stare speak volumes to me.
You leave, slowly,
a disappointed raincloud that had not the strength to spill one single drop.
All the while your inner monologue is burbling out,
a storm drain that has given up its fight with the deluge,
" and then you came home,
on the 5th of November,
and that was the day,
and you left the sea,
and I made your bed,
and the radio broke"
every word autonomous,
a programming error,
static that will not ground.
Your eyes scream of a child imprisoned within their glassy walls.
like a child at a party,
you are led away,
vice like grip
softly takes your arm.
This party food is soft,
There are no balloons,
there is no cake,
there is music.
The music of your eyes finds me again,
singing of yesteryears and dried up tears,
and all the gaps found inbetween.
You force me to fill in the blanks of you,
of all you were,
of all you will ever be.
I reduce you to a name on a door,
a pattern in a bed,
a product of a battle not won.
I have come to do good things,
I have come to let you break my heart.
When my future imprisons my youth,
when I break this moments heart,
it is then,
it is there,
where the beat goes on