You like my Papillon by Schubert,
that's why you are talking to me
you little snooty English bred Chinese,
otherwise you wouldn't care for
this tiny witch who curses worse than a man
and haunts the campus in a long black cape.
I am a woman among girls
and your simplistic face tells me
you don't know about life you don't know about death.
All you care is how this phrase is shaped
and which fingering works best
in a difficult passage such as this.
You don't know about long dark days and long dark nights,
cradling hopelessness in your arms.
What's not written in the score
is the soul you cannot imagine
until you feel intense love and intense loss,
and the perpetual wonderment of your own existence.
Your reserve manner gives me the creeps,
fuck!
See how good it sounds when you say it crisp and clear,
it snaps the stuffiness out.
My dear girl
when I walk the ground in my mourning cloak
I am not trying to get attention I am not asking for sympathy.
In this mobile dark room with velvety soft folds
I reminisce the moments of ecstasy.
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