This heart, it sings,
Even now,
Louder and more resolute
With each passing day,
A song without verses or notes,
A song which is and has been
Since time began,
Yet is different each time it is sung anew,
Unique to the heart from which it arises,
And unique to the heart from which the inspiration is drawn.
To sing a song without verses
Is to dance without any motion in your limbs,
To see without light ever entering your eyes,
To listen and to hear clearly in a room of complete silence,
To speak though your teeth and lips remain settled and unbroken,
To feel the warm embrace of another from across the globe without ever having known their touch.
I want to sing for you,
To dance with you still and some day
I will,
Though for now,
To sing from within my heart,
When I see your name or your face,
When I hear your voice,
When I recall in my mind, absent form, the memory of your existence:
This is enough.
For a song without verses
Can never really be captured,
By pen, by key, by microphone,
On paper or on screen,
On vinyl discs or radio waves,
On filtered image or film strip still,
Just as one could never hope to capture
You
And the love that arises from your presence
In this world at large
And in my heart,
Neither of which deserving,
Yet grateful and singing your name
Just the same.
Objects, and the Distance Between Them 