Placing my hand upon my chest,
Feeling the music of my beating heart,
The drum that guides my life,
I can only but say,
That its music would not be the same,
If your name was not engraved
In the caves of blood and flesh,
That pump living cells into myself.
Without your name, the music of my heart
Would not have that crescendo, that
Sweetness, that echo, that rush, that staccato,
That fire, that mellowness, that caress,
That melting sensation, that impulse,
That bang which turns me into imploding sun,
Dwarfing star, black hole, beginnings again.
Without your name, engraved in my heart,
There would be a lot of silent gaps in
The melody of my life. There would laughter, missing,
Words lost to empty spaces; looks that would
Not be reflected back to my eyes.
There would be deserts in parts of my soul;
Some of my inner fairies would turn into stone,
And there would be places where the sun would touch
Me and yet I would feel cold.
And yes, I would be who I am,
And yet my “I am” would be missing a note,
A something, a je ne se quoi, that touch
Which turns good and nice into spectacular.
So as I place my hands upon my chest
Listening to the concerto of my beating drum,
I give thanks to the Universe,
For engraving your name in my inner core.