because I can't hear the music
of the century that is always before me
I write these lines
in the margin of this invisible
love letter
perhaps
you'll wipe your smile over me
when your ears register
my face
or your dry fingers
touch
the place where I was
in your memory
I'm breathing now
and singing in a sort of a way
imagining the chattering
orchestras
that one day will play
what's left
of your music