Chopin’s Etude No. 3
The stairs were steep,
the corridors empty.
With each step came an echo that
rang through desolate halls.
Scattered around were vacant seats
gathering dust.
The brisk mountain air stung
outside.
Outside, it was unusually silent for a busy day.
Or maybe it was the constant ringing
in my ears:
the last words, the last look.
That look
so eloquent and ripe.
(How was it again?
You sat there on that
high chair, staring out
at me, standing, looking at
you restlessly. You
and you were saying something:
last wishes, a final rite of some sort for
the dead silence that lay between
us. Then you
you, then, reached out, and let go.
You said you can’t see me off anymore. So
I walked away.)
Then I walked away.
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