I believe in music.*
I believe that
when words fail,
music speaks.
It lives as a part of us,
giving an internal fight.
A fight to live, to be remembered
as something more
than just another drop in the sea.

Our world spins around
as a symphony,
a thousand different songs
coming together in a harmony.
Every incoherent thought
becomes a lyric.
Every tear shed
strums a chord.
Every individual
a beat.
Every voice
a song.

Panic strikes me
as I realize that
I'm alone

Alone for the first time--
and I don't know
what to do with myself

All these people
Insistent beeping, buzzing,
rolling, shutting

My collective mind
Unraveling
Before my eyes as I have
No one to talk to
to
Connect
with

Floundering
thumbing through
my contacts
to find someone

Anyone

To make me feel wanted,
to feel that my company,
even if through a phone,
is wanted, that I am
desirable

As I fold in on myelf
the Layers turning inward,
eating themselves--

The waitress leans down and asks:

Is everything okay?

I respond, muttering:

mmhm.

It's killing me from the outside in
you know...

But I don't say that

As the layers fold,
the only thing that remains
is a scared little girl
just as frightened as she was
the day she opened her eyes
underwater
and looked around
and realized how eerily
vast and deep the water was...

It still scares her.
It scares me.
And I realize
that the one thing
I can't stand more than
Anything
more than death itself:
is being alone.

Why?

Because when I am
alone with my thoughts
That vastness
that deep ocean of nothingness
bathed in a burning, purified chlorine
Haunts me

Because I cannot fill it,
not even with the deepest of thoughts,
the most vivid sentiments
Cannot satisfy the depths
of the reflective blue against
a slate of unfeeling cement

Oh no, you weren't my
lullaby singer, my troubadour, but
in my darkest nights I
knew I could  count on you
                                                             ­                                           always.


Always there with your eager
words (eager hands), with your
incessant desire for more,
(always more) and that's when I
                                                               ­                                          knew


you were the one I needed.
The way you were crushing
on other meaningless girls was
                                                                ­                                       something


I could easily overlook.
You were here and it
was all that mattered to me.
And the sour feeling in my heart
                                                           ­                                              was


not important (right?) But then,
why are you the world to me, when
I am only one tiny star in the
constellation of your life? In my bed,
at night, (every night), I wish I am
                                                              ­                                          *wrong.

don’t ever tell me that
you love me,
I am afraid I will run away like
                the donkey you said your papa had when he was a boy
                on the farm he lived on somewhere in

                southern Argentina
when he was 17 like you.

it was his pride and beauty.