Light piano treads softly
over the fading remnants
of our deep summer skies,
calling us back into
blue days and purple nights
that flicker before us like
the flame of a candle
we can never extinguish.

An overature or finale,
an underscore to sunsets
and rainshowers and the
sharp scent of sunblock,
giving ourselves up
to be carried by the music
that we can never quite hear.

Sweet acoustica,
I remember your hands.
We are forever stranded
on the shore of an ocean called
Time.