Maybe it is time.
Maybe soon it shall be.
But can we even make those decisions?
For our hands cannot force the dials of our innate clocks in either directions.
They can only rustle the keys on a grand piano,
or pluck the garrotes of wooden instruments.
Beautiful creations of auditory hallucinations.
Meant to paralyze you,
make love to you.
Which is what I sit here now and do.
As you lay next to me in sweet slumbering solitude.
These keys I accost,
I spell your name.
But you can’t hear me.
You don’t even know I am here.
Because I am not…and neither are you.
A sweet reverie.
A lonely embrace.
In the quiet glow of the night,
my breaths contain no life.
I’ve been here for mere minutes yet it feels like eons.
Strange eons of caustic sentiments.
I shatter every image of you with sour notes.
Crimson rosewood and rufous-specked ivory invoke the phantasmagoria.
I will continue to compose.
Only until I traverse the final cadence.