Time Passes

Time passes The haunting notes of the oboe drift across the room And fill the emptiness within me; My uncontrollable mind builds its picture of you, note by note, And I inwardly weep at its perfection. Time passes, and you fade into memories that pierce my Soul with forgetfulness of imperfection; Oboe melts into cor anglais and the swan glides in solitude, And I feel the softness of your touch. Who would know that love could be visceral, inner sensation With the woodwind’s melancholy note Pulling the warmth of hope into a rising hunger within, And denial that you think not of me. You fill my thoughts, yet I know I am a stranger in your mind A distant aberration in your life; Yet I would have it otherwise still, and hope you have fond Remembrance of me, and curiosity.