can you write a sad song for me?
so I can count the tears in violin notes,
so the sobs can hum within the lulling bass,
and the tremors can dance with the cautious melody?

can you write a sad song for me?

because of what I never could do before,
because of how I tip-toe across the hollow-wood war,
and because of why the music must stain its surroudings
with a melancholy melody?

can you write a sad song for me?

to let me drown in the pulsing reverie,
to let me wash away my bloodstains in the sea,
and to let me drip back down the sink like long held notes of epiphany?

can you write a sad song for me?

tune your gleaming instruments,
polish the silver beads,
and take your time in tying strings
until they're much too tight.

can you write a sad song for me?

one that I cannot hear?
one that sounds of my threaded heart,
of the bones I clutch, so near?

write a sad song for me,

and I promise I'll disappear,
decaying in the essence of what you hear
and fading into the trill of backround noise.
white noise. silent noise.
turn my skeleton into thin, opaque vibrations,
into perception of my screwed-up soundwaves,
that of which you never did want to hear.

can you write a sad song for me?

listen very closely to the song
in between the beats of my heart...
because if you listen closely, you'll hear a song that sings
of less noise.
less city.
less life between the two of us.

write a sad song for me,

so it'll be the last thing I ever hear,
the last thing your violin will ever cry to.

tear up your sheet music.

burn it.
i'll harmonize our souls
and our orchestra will quit it.