Beauty
I wanted to give you,
the thrumming beckons,
of a symphony-
But when it stopped,
as it came to a halt I know,
that I didn't have it, now,
thrust into my being,
that I lost the tune.
I wanted to hand it,
to you my doll,
on a plate of gold,
like a chocolate cake,
of Beethoven, and Bach.
But, I lost it.
Will ever it come back to me?
The sound of music,
with pumping wild through me . . .
Like the sound of a scathing tiger,
or spitting tigeress,
our hands flow along the keys,
together.
We were mad, and wild,
ecstatic with the heartfelt,
joy of it-
but we lost it, we lost it.
Will ever the songs come back to us?
Maybe on a melodious day in July,
when the sun melts everything,
and our hands itch,
with the familiar longing,
reached by the heat.
Then I will thank the sun,
for making us too tired to think,
because finally, you and I will play,
like we once did-
And lover ourselves with the music.
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