Our souls were
        Heavy with

        Silence, on the night we parted.
        At least, they were to our ringing ears.
        Yet everyone could hear it but us, it seems.
        
        That sad melody of our hopes and our fears,
        Heard from miles and years
        Away... of sad romances and softly whispered dreams
        That our hearts told us could never be... They were right, it seems.

        You won't remember my face.
        Only echoes of my skin; like a portrait
        Under a portrait, painted over in every empty space
        ...
        Like so many failed paintings;
        Like so many failed...

        My hands won't even allow me to write.
        Isn't that
        Sick?So... Don't ask me to write any more. I won't ask you to
        Sing

        More. I'll write no further
        Eulogies for our failed sonata. Here's the coda. There's the door.
        ????   Isn't it funny? That we couldn't hear that sound before?
We were singing such beautiful songs, but they were
      Melodies that the singers couldn't hear. Isn't that the definition of ironic?
      And... Though I couldn't hear our last symphony, I would
      Dare say that could my ears have divined that melody...
      Every note had to be perfect. As if the composer of that song had designed it

To be sung in a duet....