Sometimes
the music just
winds down

The notes
stretch
lengthen
into articulated shadows reaching
fingers of sound
across the room.

There are no accusations in song

Regret
yes of course

And that stale taste in your mouth
as though you have bitten
into a not quite ripe orange
tart and bitter
with sweetness
not yet
but almost.

And the strains of sound
gather together
in melodic unity
shifting perception
to bring you to conclusion

You
the rhythm
I thought constant
an endless repetition of my beat
tracking higher and lower with
each unattainable note I strove for

And though I would
clang and belch
discord
still you played the notes
the sound
the words of my song
in perfect harmonies.

But I am the song

dying

and you the echoed resonance
of what should have been.