Our souls were
Heavy with
Silence, on the night we parted.
At least, they were to our ringing ears.
Yet everyone could hear it but us, it seems.
That sad melody of our hopes and our fears,
Heard from miles and years
Away... of sad romances and softly whispered dreams
That our hearts told us could never be... They were right, it seems.
You won't remember my face.
Only echoes of my skin; like a portrait
Under a portrait, painted over in every empty space
...
Like so many failed paintings;
Like so many failed...
My hands won't even allow me to write.
Isn't that
Sick?So... Don't ask me to write any more. I won't ask you to
Sing
More. I'll write no further
Eulogies for our failed sonata. Here's the coda. There's the door.
???? Isn't it funny? That we couldn't hear that sound before?
We were singing such beautiful songs, but they were
Melodies that the singers couldn't hear. Isn't that the definition of ironic?
And... Though I couldn't hear our last symphony, I would
Dare say that could my ears have divined that melody...
Every note had to be perfect. As if the composer of that song had designed it
To be sung in a duet....
Another story, another end, and another heartbreaking page to catalogue it. Nothing left to do but play my violin until sleep takes me. Goodnight, HP.
- Ian
