Your symphony of solitude
Is morose and possibly
Not that it is a tragedy
You would ever perform
Yet by accident your play
Is put on by the murmur in your voice
And the clouded laughter
In your eyes.
Your fingers serve as actors,
Bowing to grasp mine
And your lips paint the scenery,
Their kiss cold like
A starry night.
Backstage, so black,
Your thoughts are almost visible
In those times I stay in my seat
Your words create the orchestra,
Clamouring to curl
In the chambers of my heart.
And your secret is the understudy,
Playing its part.
And at curtain fall I will let you
Bask in applause given by my skin;
I will let you string out my veins
And play my heart like a violin.