and world-shaking irritation
that made a deaf musician
craft a symphony.
I think of him when I try
to explain the layout of
the kitchen to my spouse.
The plates do not go there.
Harmony and discord
sing where we leave silence,
filling the caesuras of the day
with music we neither intend, nor hear.
Hand in hand, we write our chords,
each scoring our lives, all but deaf.
Are the notes we hear with our closed eyes
the ones we wrote for each other, or to ourselves?
You are my symphony,
and our life, notes on a staff.
Smile, and I can almost
hear your music.
Sing to me, though I may not hear,
let me feel the thrum of song in your chest.
Sing to me, and let me believe
you know the words to a song I never shared.