I confess on occasion her face begins to fade in my memory.

Her visage shrunken in the palm of my hand is but a pale imitation.

In the years when embraces were I many I recall

The thrill of her arms pulling me ever so closer lasting all but too briefly.

A song now rings of thunder as I hum along to a nostalgic tune.

Melodies take me to a faraway place deep inside her heart

Where the pages open upon awkward breathless minutes

And the hours chime as if the crows were awaiting their feast.

The heart longs for recognition perhaps, but more so for reciprocation.

The lungs of the singer burst with a passion all to familiar

Suppressed and battered upon shoals and empty pages.

Midnight confessions drunkenly stumble only to wither away in cowardice.

If only her name could be sung

And if only the chords strung together in desperate proclamation

Harmonized in a simpler musical serendipity,

And if only whispers truly achieved their sweet understanding

Perhaps then and only then would she hear this song

I write clumsily while holding this torch with its flame alit;

Its embers singed upon my brow.

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