he was the most puzzling song-

sorrowful, as only a lyrical genius
could capture in such stark beauty,
as only he could encase without effort

i wanted him in every sense,
but i only knew music:
i could count his beats,
memorize his rhythms,
but never rip away his skin,
nestle somewhere in his soft marrow
because even skeleton is shapely pretense-

he was nothing but pretense,
ideas thrown away as new ones arose;
as i analyzed yet another stanza
and wove it along copious notes,
each line contradicted the last-

i was in love with art,
blinded in interpretation,
entranced by his melancholy.