the durability of love -

there is a music box in another room,
a room that is not mine,
and like the lit bathroom
and the dog with it's ears taped back,
I run from it simply because I must.

there is a music box in another room,
like a fragment of a dream,
recurring the following day,
it plays for a moment,
and leaves me disconcerted,
moved,
and still alone.

there is a music box in another room,
and no matter where I travel,
or place myself intentionally,
there it remains,
faint and pressing,
insistent and deliberate.

there is a music box in another room,
sweet sweet secret of the child,
hollow eyes from lacking sleep,
trembling with morning passion and the birth of sunlight,
it reaches through the lists to find the human soul.

there is a music box in another room,
where you had placed it,
not an actual box,
with no real tune,
but important nonetheless,
because your hands touched it in the other room.

and I was not there.





GLS
2.17.98

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