I composed this song for you by running my fingertips across a piano keyboard whilst blindfolded.
At first the tones fluttered like a moth at the window on a rainy night.
But eventually shapes and patterns emerged and a melody hovered for a fleeting moment between my sense of you and your sense of yourself.
But only for a moment.
My excitement led me astray from the keyboard in my private darkness.
And my fingertips struck only what the great composers must have thought of as the dead zone of the piano: the lid, the sides, the stool, and so forth.
I’m sure Beethoven must have encountered this problem frequently,
Even though he was deaf, rather than blind.
No matter how far I ranged in any direction
I could not find my way back to the keyboard.
At one point my fingers struck the empty coat hangers,
Where your clothes used to hang in the closet.
A short while later I found myself playing among your tubes of paint and your brushes.
And then I was among the dirty dishes piled up in the sink
where nobody bothers to wash them any more.
Eventually I removed the blindfold and discovered that I had somehow
Stumbled into an unfamiliar house.
Portraits of an extremely handsome man lined the walls.
I did not know who he was, but the painting style was unmistakably yours.
Sounds of lovemaking drifted down from upstairs.
The kitchen was as clean as a surgeon’s fingernails.
I prepared myself a meal, and returned home.
I’m sorry I didn’t wash the dishes.
This is why my song for you seems to be short and ends abruptly.