The Greatest Actor: Café Rouge, Edinburgh »

thegreatestactor:

This glass of Syrah went to my head,
and all I can think of is your
beautiful music. It plays
key by key in my head, a tiny
music box that needn’t the
winding that your
beautiful music
does to my heart strings.

Why does the reflection
of the moon
on my glass
remind me of
1 album, 15 tracks, and 55 minutes?
Was it good for you?
Or were there
songs you couldn’t hear?

I heard them all. Regrettably.
Unforgettably fumbling
at the door, wondering
if I’d ever hear that same
beautiful music again, or
see those familiar reddened lips
mouth, ”I’ll see you soon.”

Now my lips are red.

This
glass of Syrah is
laughing at me, staining my
mouth with the memory
of you.
I find myself left here,
exposed,
beating myself
into
the pulp
of an
empty
invisible
ghost

—alone.

There
are sounds all around me:
The pithy chatter of friends,
the tight-lipped laughter of lovers, an
old record skipping through sentimental mush.
But I don’t hear any of it.
Still as ever,
I only listen for you,
the music from that night,
and my heartbeat
running wildly
through time
and space
and nothing.

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