the evening breeze flows in, through a window left ajar
and your whispered words still reach me;
like fragments of shattered glass in my scars,
I carry these pieces onward to finish the tragedy –
but they’re so few in number it’s laughable.
they’re all I have from our years together
and now, before my eyes,
they become meaningless.
Tchaikovsky, you answered;
the name is hollow in my heart.
these days, the music notes line themselves up on the staff,
in a way I’ve never seen;
numbers spill across the tabs like paint,
and part of me can’t wait to make them mean something –
but for some reason, tonight, they refuse to be played
and I can’t stop turning away.
I know I don’t have to send you these videos anymore
or these stories, or these poems.
the nightly winds will carry them between us,
like Akana Soemon racing to make good on his promise –
and my promise,
my old, eternal promise now renewed.
how is it that you can still see?
if death truly means eternity;
I carry what I can and deliver to you what’s next,
and tomorrow I leave to the night.
your name leaves a bitter and salty taste,
but Tchaikovsky I can say;
and even though tonight I turn away,
the music still means more –
more than it did, on that very first day.