I’ve Heard There Was A Secret Chord

When the cold sinks in,
deep into the hearts of the streets,
she let out that butterfly ,
that had been in hiding since birth.

She floats above and beneath.
An alien.
In search of poignant romances.
A kiss.
Eyes that abandoned the world,
just to have a memory build.

“Why do you become a memory?” She said.
He looked at her.
“This. All of this, by tomorrow  night will be a clipboard clipping in my head!
Why can’t you be… like…”
“Like what?”
“Like.. my fingertips…these fingertips. They are not a memory”
“You don’t get to keep anyone from the moment passed.”
He sipped cha. “Just you. Any last touch is lost in time. You are a lone voyager traveling through time, your cloak irreverent to the dust and flowers around. You are a taro leaf and all around you is water.”
“I hate you.”
He looked at her with the anguish and serenity of a crucified Christ.  “ I know.”

No banjo played. No guitar stringed. No flute rhymed.
Yet every time the memory floated,
not unlike the butterfly,
she heard the secret cord.

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