Science of Sound

This song played just for me, she says,

Earring brushing her shoulder,

Head cocked in recognition.

Sound waves bounced off the toupeéd old man,

The napping usher, and all she heard

Was the Ab of your voice,

Its sparkle and glow, the sound

Of your hand on my spine.

The C# of springtime, soft air and a song I don't

Recognize, and at the end

The resolve of Middle C. 

You heard a different song.

When the wavelengths hit walls, the wheelchair

Two seats to your left,

Your hair, longer than its ever been,

Muffled the sound and you heard

An August D, the shallow resonance

Of the we that never were,

The distinctive Bb of your breaking heart

And at the end, the same Middle C,

Tainted now.

She smiles in nostalgia and you reduce to tears

Across the theatre.

The same sounds, and yet,

We've never heard the same song at all.