It was dark like the inside of a
piano, the twanging of the instrument
filled your eyes, I said you looked through
octaves. The sound is made in the closed
coffin, it comes to life in the depth
of the grave. I never said, please, look
somewhere else, the piano twanged,
swelling on me, the promise
dissolved my all. Now the dark—
if it’s good for the wood, why not for me?
They say the sun, before stepping into the sky,
dwells in the jungle, gathers darkness,
so I do from your eyes, forever burning.