If the tunes of unplayed music
grow yet stronger in the mind
as blossoms left to ripen
sweeten gently with time;
and if touch indeed has memory
then I've loved you
under a thousand suns -
and awaiting your whisper
inflames my very blood.
between the lines of words
hangs palpably in the air
suspiciously unheard
as the silence before a tempest
of impatient sound:
the silken ribbon of a sigh
before it is unwound.
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