I’ll keep on telling you that I love you—
soft as dust on lace,
a whisper tucked in velvet drawers,
a melody wound into time
by trembling hands and silver keys.

Like the ballerina turning in her little glass world,
I’ll spin my love in slow circles,
over and over—
even when the tune grows thin,
even when the gears grow tired.

When the cogs in my mind lose their rhythm,
when the clockwork in my chest falters,
when my fingers no longer reach to hold you—
still, somewhere beneath the hush,
my heart will echo its worn refrain:
“I love you, I love you…”

Until the spindle stops,
until the lid closes gently,
and all that’s left
is the scent of old music,
the silence that remembers
the song we once knew.