Strings make me calm.
The echoing sound of the hair on a string
makes me feel safe.
Never knew why.
But tonight as the room is empty,
and i keep telling myself there’s nothing left to feel.
I keep up on the wander,
the wanting. The waiting.
This carving need of reach,
to tell the secrets I’ve only told to the rain
as she washed the sins i’d never been able to commit
but yet still suffer the sentence.
This need that grows like a cancer inside of me.
A metastasis of my own indulgence.
The only hint of a possible reach is so intoxicating,
that it makes me want suffocate between satin sheets,
while my dreams make love with chaos.
And I’m not yours, and you’re not mine.
But yet i long for it like the summer longs for sun.
Or the drought for rain.
And i’m the Rain.
But strings make me calm.
Never knew why, but the crying wept of music
fulfills the constant silence in my throat.
Their cry is made of all the words i’m not able to say.