There is the music,
cherry-lip sweet. There is
the soft electrical hum,
the occasional slamming of the keys.
Row by row, the page is
dampened by my mourning,
rent by the iron words.
I listen for that sound,
that voice for which I wait
idly
each day
awaiting its return
as the shore awaits the ocean
eternally bound to its edges
and weeping into its sands.
2014/'15