So strong, the crystal clear sorrow,
that breath is left forgotten
to lie at the heart of emotion
and, though words chain together,
no reason will extract them from sound.
Why do you cry within my heart?

So delicate, the crystal clear voice,
that I can see the body I don’t know,
the tense curve of the thin neck,
the bare arms drawing the absence,
not from the lover, who left, but from within.
Why do you sing through my senses?

So physical, the crystal clear presence,
that I am nothing before your eyes
but the demand to be fulfilled,
a hollow kernel aspiring for senses and reason,
like a hunger no food will appease.
Why do you deliver me so empty to myself?

So intense, the crystal clear music,
that sight touches those places in my chest
for ever devoid of light
and the longing for what we cannot name
settles and colours my silent stare.
Why do I hear my cry in your voice?

So soft, the crystal clear sorrow,
that music becomes suspended vowels
floating by the chest like tearing feathers
and sorrow is sorrow no more,
but the pain from its empty drawers.
Why do you open doors no man should cross?

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