“Paused”

I can still hear the music
that drifted on the air
to pull her together, or break
or her apart on pages like these.
She’d pull up that journal and be gone
excepting only for the music that’d
waft toward me – she’s gone,
but that music hasn’t stopped, like
she’s still there, out of sight,
buried in her thoughts, and soon
she’ll emerge and the music’ll die
on the air and we’ll fall
back to wherever we’d dared
to be before.

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“Music”

Sometimes, it can have more life
than all those slow walking faces
parading in the corners of my eyes
everywhere I go and decide to stay.

That beat and soundful lullaby
can live a life more love filled
than anyone I’ll ever know;
so why am I just a listener?

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