Violin On The Lake
Finally, the violin sounds;
He is playing.
There has been much sleep around our eyes
much food
many words shared,
jovial and
weighted with fear and anxiety.
We have ventured out together, taken little risks
one by one
like Zoloft.
The floating sounds
of what is left
after the strings have been caressed by his bow.
It sounds like a lonely journey yet to come
but very clearly on the horizon.
It sounds like closed, dry eyes
hoping to remain that way
while the throat and mind do their part to keep the tears back.
It sounds like the moment in which
it is finally permissible to cry.
It sounds like sobs halting out of emotional fatigue.
Tears left on the cheek to dry, over some time, in the heat of Tanger.
It sounds like a struggle,
and an admission,
like understanding what love is, and that being no comfort.
