Come now the low notes of longing, the slow climb
of your fingers on the scale, the keys—
wholes and halves of them—
following your lead. As if
a match were struck.
This wordless cipher, a timbre reverberating
in the cochlear, charts a path that burns
to my chest, takes a brief detour
through the wrinkly
folds of my
like Christmas bulbs
twinkling to your made-up tune.
What startles more than the notes rearranging
themselves, is how reason loses its vocal chords
how that chord progression in C minor blazes up in a crescendo:
and I know there is no discourse here
no scaffolding for logic to climb,
one true proposition
at a time.
The premise of your
playing admits of no
conclusion, necessary or otherwise,
only probable melodies, possible rhythms.
There are no words
when the mind
itself is a
© Noelle Leslie dela Cruz