Alone, left not a sound
nor word of extricate.
As humble pie they slid.
Words unfinished, like
fancy work embossed
on the hand extended.
Silken gloves removed
to reveal fingers that
we pianists gently stroke
on simultaneous keyboards.
Verbose the affinity, once
shared in a twilight of linger.
And in the dim that sings
La Traviata to the silenced
autumn’s light grew quiet.
She remembers a smile
of a time that tingled …