Maybe one day, if we’re unlucky,
we’ll find the word, the set of words, to translate
the language of the strings and the cadences
and the just sounds that smother the deepest
part of you, the true
part that aches for foreign countries
and oceans.
The best music becomes the tiniest part
of you, just enough to torture
you when it won’t duplicate itself exactly
in your mind. It’s the middle of the night
and why stars actually live
printed in someone else’s eyes
and the laugh you don’t plan
and a sob that’s ever only saved
and a mirror glued back together
and the sky’s offering of comfort
in the exact shade of honey.
Maybe that’s as close as we’re allowed
to get to translating a pulse.
we’ll find the word, the set of words, to translate
the language of the strings and the cadences
and the just sounds that smother the deepest
part of you, the true
part that aches for foreign countries
and oceans.
The best music becomes the tiniest part
of you, just enough to torture
you when it won’t duplicate itself exactly
in your mind. It’s the middle of the night
and why stars actually live
printed in someone else’s eyes
and the laugh you don’t plan
and a sob that’s ever only saved
and a mirror glued back together
and the sky’s offering of comfort
in the exact shade of honey.
Maybe that’s as close as we’re allowed
to get to translating a pulse.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
shafer15
mimibby
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