Corridor

The music plays softly,
but only in your eyes.
We have not heard what you know,
we do not go where you go.

You tell me you are glad I am here,
and you know that I do good things,
then you leave.
Your delicate gait and your thousand yard stare speak volumes to me.

You leave, slowly,
a disappointed raincloud that had not the strength to spill even a drop.
All the while your inner monologue is burbling out,
a storm drain that has given up its fight with the deluge,

" and then you came home,
on the 5th of November,
and that was the day,
and you left the sea,
and I made your bed,
and the radio broke"

every word autonomous,
a programming error,
a glitch,
static that will not ground.

Your windows scream of a child imprisoned within their glassy walls.
Then,
like a child,
at a party,
you are led away,
vice like grip,
softly takes your arm.
This party food is soft,
easily digested,
and saltless.
There are no balloons,
there is no cake, but...

...there is music.
Your musical eyes find me again,
singing of yesteryears and the gaps in between.
You force me to fill in the blanks of you,
all you were,
of all you ever will be.
I reduce you to a name on a door,
a pattern in a bed,
a product of a battle not won.

I have come to do good things,
I have come to let you break my heart.

When my windows imprison my child,
when I too break the futures heart,
it is then,
it is there, where the beat goes on.