Wednesday, April 23, 2008

It is beautiful, the way her body sways to the music, even if there is none playing. The tunes emitting from the speaker in her mind.

Yet the distance, a wide, growing canyon, prevents his hearing the notes, which fall just short, strewn about the floor, fourths, eighths, wholes and holds.

Hold on to the warmth, fingers slipping idly but with intent, squeezing just to know that it's real, that it's tangible, that something like this can exist.

But a mere illusion, delusion, contusion to the romantic spirit, exorcism of a corpse beaten down by the years and the wear and tear.

And so he waits for the resuscitation. Maybe this canyon will not become his grave after all.

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