After those many minutes,
jewels—miniscule, precious—
voices intertwining,
undulating, threading together,
joining in a single strand,
pulsating, resonating
dancing against wood and stone,
an intimacy born through art,
loving through our mouths, our ears,
baring that most tender part,
from our throats, from our tongues,
warm and pink and exposed--
the soul revealed.
After this, suffering your silence.
Strangers again.
We return to politeness, stiff silences
cold glances, useless conversation.
No longer intimate, but a barrier,
an absence.
I reel in bewilderment.
How not to disintegrate?
Collapse? Implode?
Withdraw in bitterness?
How not to harden?
To steel myself against such profound rejection?
A sting like scalding silver,
a foul taste lingering in the mouth
like remnants of wine,
that wakes you, parched, at midnight.
Last night I dreamt of a piano
that through some act of carelessness
or willful ignorance
I left vulnerable to a leak from the ceiling,
a leak which became a stream,
rushing water over the sound board,
a cascade,
rivulets passing over the keys,
dripping through the strings,
a flood of tears let loose,
ruining the instrument, so beloved.
And yet,
water flowed down only one side.
The middle octaves safe and dry,
the limbs damaged,
the heart untouched.
