[silent-tears]

But she had loved unwritten things instead,
I pondered as night's windows filled with gray
and all the things the rain had left unsaid.


To live not of the heart but of the head
has been my curse, each memo to its tray,
but she had loved unwritten things instead.

That such unlikes, by wry chance, should be wed!
What, in this voiceless autumn's disarray,
of all the things the rain has left unsaid,

but walks that road, kneels in the flashing red,
as if she would awaken where she lay,
for she had loved unwritten things instead.

Who knows where noon's flecked sidewalks might have led
had I let schedules look the other way?
And all the things the rain has left unsaid

might have voice still, the A string that was dead,
the improvised sonatas she would play,
for she had loved unwritten things instead,
and all the things the rain has left unsaid.