No Title

My love is a blank expression
Carried in monotone silence -
The fire of tender gestures
Hushed by a long winter.

The crinkle of Autumn’s slumber
Gave limitation to Summer and Spring,
Their infinite blossom quieted to finite whispers -
Combed gently into a white winter grasp.

My love is staccato, coarse and unheard;
Floating along the riverbed of melody -
A bone yard legato; a raked pile of heresy.
I am a glissando of Stradivarius skin.

I am stretched and worn around trill Apagados.