My Love, The Painting

Yet here is a note played hysterically upon grievous keys
There's a glance, a hesitant sigh
A feeling of reluctance that strangles the harmony from the music
As an awl to leather
She pierces the cold air, not without passion
Just without any sound
My hopes, unfulfilled, drier than an empty basin
Neither looks to pick up the silence

In the wake of such limp and lifeless apologies
It is in the moment after, where reconciliation is touchable
But instead, the absence of words becomes foul
Two colors rise out of the yellow stained walls
Not to talk, but to leave
Without words, wounds ever deeper than the pierce of an awl