the only way i know how to reach you, or anyone,
is through music. I poke songs across thresholds my feet fear to trespass
and wait with twiddling thumbs and drumming feet trying not to guess what you think,
as though i were the one who labored to give birth to the sounds you are now dissecting through your stereos.
every Play button pressed is acquiescence, is acceptance of my tentative gifts,
but only half of you will do more than hear what i am trying to say.
those who listen will understand perhaps a fourth,
but they’ll pretend to know when my mouth shapes the notes like i devour diapasons with each inhalation (and i do).
when my back is turned you’ll politely (gently, gently) push these sonic pieces of myself beneath the door
like you’re ashamed to shove them in my chest.
(and somewhere on the other side of the universe there are empty ears aching for the transonic sustenance you refuse)