One more page,
and I'm afraid to fill the book.
Listening to 'Flightless Bird',
and it always fills me with a spastic crying,
my soul gaping in a hypertonus of sadness.
One more page,
and it feels like a feint-ruled death.
You were music to me.

You were music to my listening skin,
to my beating blood;
you were music to my blue eyes,
to my green words.
You were music to
all the nail-scissored sunrises,
to all the gas-flamed peacock feathers...
Oh, sunrise music!

You were music to my strong-sweet-coffee-mornings,
to my cold-glass-of-water middle-of-the-nights...

One more page,
and my book will be silent, deaf and dumb;
the book of my life will go in a drawer,
the drawer will be closed,
and the world will be without the music of you
once more.

And, how can I live without it?
without the music of you?
How can I live in a world of matte wall paint
and white wardrobe doors;
of screwed-up scraps of paper under willow trees,
of dead men curled up against buildings in the frost;
of dogs with cancerous muzzles;
of dropped coins and dog turds on the footpath...
How can I live without the music?

And, when I can't hear the music any more,
where? where, my love...
where will the music be?