When I hear your voice,
I feel like I'm feeling.
I am no longer numb.
It isn't quite joy.
It isn't quite anger.
It isn't my righteous indignation.
I feel like I might be me.
I might be something similar.
When I watch your hands,
they look warm,
I want to sing with you.
I don't know the words,
my hands don't.
But I wish to silence my tongue,
speak with fingers.
Soon, I will no longer hear,
so I must learn to sing without a voice,
paint words with steady hands.
Mine shake,
timid and frightened to convey
what my lips cannot,
vibrations slightly off from the violin.
You instruct me how to feel,
how to not feel and gain substance.