Not the blossomings of songs nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.
You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my dark, pensive thoughts.
We congratulate ourselves that we two are different:
that this weakness has not burdened us both with inchoate grief.
Now you are here, and I find myself bowing—
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.
I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.