The Unfinished Symphony
The record plays -
sounds of love; words that touch the heart.
I reach for you with all my being
and, finding I still cannot touch you
I sit down to cover paper with my song to you.
A piece of paper - starchy white with tiny, symmetrical
blue veins running across.
An impersonal piece of paper that obligingly holds my
ink-blotched words so that I may gaze at them
and wonder at their lack of saying
what I mean to say.
I run my hand across the page and wish it were you I was touching.
I wish each quiet scratch of the pen on parchment was
the sound of your voice.
And, because not the page nor the words nor the sound is you -
I cross out everything I've written, crumple the page and
throw it away.
The room is silent now. The record has quit turning.
The needle is in its cradle.
And I find that tonight I have no song. Not on paper.
Only within me.
And, tomorrow, I'll again reach out to touch you.
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