In each note that he played,
in the notes resonating from his fingers as he strung the thread,
I saw a fragment of something pure-
like the white snow of the first fall,
the cold dew of the dark dawn.
And within the purity it held, hidden was remorse and languor.
Away from the eagle eyes of mortal beasts,
I saw him succumb to the regret,
the regret that he never owned,
and a part of me wants to soothe him,
sent him to a sleep of absolute peace,
just like I yearn to do to myself.
In those tensed fingers and stormy eyes,
I see a part of myself- calling out for what I lost.
Maybe unlike him, I might have never had it,
since the beginning, until this very end,
I may have breathed in a life of delusion,
but maybe it is this very realization,
that has me begging on my knees at the heavens,
to grant me what I don’t posses.
A chuckle- a chuckle deep from within arises,
the more I take in that withering body of his,
he only ever lost what he had, I lost what I never had.
Who is to weigh heavier on the scale
his melody- a song he is desperate to sing,
or mine- my song without a melody, I can only dream to sing.