When a poet
holds his pen
and the composer
finds the perfect words
the painter mixed the shades
and the singer hit the notes

dearest,
that's when scars turn
into art.

our lips will never meet
nor our fingers intertwine
and so bless my dreams
for indulging what's not mine

She keeps songs
locked away in boxes
like secrets.
She will take them out
like postcards
to help her remember
the feeling of
a different time,
a different person
by her side.
She likes the one
that makes her
eyes close
to see the lights.
She smiles at
the one that  
makes her stand
up on tiptoes,
the one that
helps her forget
she doesn’t know
what to do
with her hands.

The tune
will carry her.

Like it did
the times when
voices broke
like a heart.
When instruments’ strings
would snap
and hurt.