Rachmaninov in my head

Rachmaninov in my head,

Sound-tracking the scenarios and conversations I am having about the what might bes, the possibilities, the maybes, the could it bes;

If I just say this, if I just try that, if I just be like this, I know that’s what he might be thinking, I know that’s why he’s not doing what I want him to do, I know I know I know;

I’m telling you this, I’m explaining why, this is my argument, this is my reasoning, are you listening? Can you hear me? Can you notice the tear-fall blink, the dense tenseness across my shoulders, my chin-line stark-hard as my irresolution is performed for you, your gaze, you alone;

All the words, all the metaphors, all the glances and sighs, the raised arms and whys, the backs turned and thighs moved under, the feet upturned on bitumen, the stillness and velocity  of time as everything crashes in the pin prick dot dot dot of that moment…..

And throughout all of this, underneath and beside, Rachmaninov plays; he is my stage, my auditorium, my head-sound-wave, the concerti overlap like a jigsawed canon, cannon firing, fountain pouring, mourning imaginary losses and gains, pining for a resolution.