Something about silence makes me sick.
The loneliness of a heart pounding on its own,
Violently squeezing blood from place to place.
Indignant spasms and tremors at the injustice
Of being kept away from that other, perfect rhythm,
The one that flutters with blissful skipped beats.
If music be the food of love, play on, it demands.
The orchestra has packed up and left,
Returning to the cloisters where it plays alone.
Pounding his fists against my chest,
My heart demands another symphony,
Just one more theme.
And so alone I sit,
Desperately trying to compose something
As beautiful as you.