It sits, poisonous
Dripping sorrow over the windowsill
I drove to the Skyway,
Dropped a heart over the edge.
Watched it splash under
It took a couple seconds to hit.

This apartment, I can't find any matches.
Beethoven's wife,
It's legend that she would play a scale,
All except the last note- and Beethoven-
awake asleep in between dreams
not waking to her kisses would
get up to finish it.
She probably knew everything about him.
I bet she wept when he went deaf.
I like to think he wrote her a sonata, or two.

It's raining outside.
Right behind the poison on my windowsill.
A candle would make this place better

Where are the matches?
Beethoven's wife would never have betrayed him.
Do re mi fa so la ti-