she looks at me as if to say,
you were simply,
an honest mistake,
made with good intention,
and nice at the time,
but long since forgotten,
a futile woodwind, in
an orchestral life,
struggling to make an impact,
on hyperbolic composition...

tell me, truthfully,
you don’t remember its pitch,
the call of its notes,
rang true, it seemed,
for you to imply,
it was not even heard,
makes a mockery of the
efforts made,

honestly, just once,
say its crescendoes
did not bellow, with
the strength of
a timpani, the
sweetness of flutes,
the heart of a sax,

say that the notes
that you sang at the time,
were a lie, simply,
an honest mistake,
and i'll leave this composition,
promising though it seemed,
broken and incomplete,
just as you’d like.