The Two Occasions When Max Richter Made Me Cry

Sitting helplessly on my bed,
waiting for the clock to turn an hour later,
still damp from the shower,
hunched over my little book
of technology.

Little drops
not from my locks
but from my lashes
dash upon the keyboard.

The violin turning, caressing
my little hummingbird heart.
Comforting my weak, dangling limbs.
Over my shoulders, circling my elbows.
Relief in the form of a sympathetic piano
slides down my spine and settles in my lower back.

I find no rest in rapid drums,
and vocals do not offer peace.
I contain a gluttonous amount
of pounding heartbeats and
cycling words on my own.

My hopeful bow,
running over the strings.
Pointing out my hurt and cynicism.

Reset and challenged,
I am ready for what is next.


It is hours past midnight
and I am standing alone in my room,
in an Anne of Green Gables dress
and bare feet.

Faded brown carpet beneath,
my feet begin to dance,
without a lead.

I imagine wood floor,
and my feet in shoes.
My lead, with his gray hair,
and distinctive dancing face.
He is swaying his hips,
like he did as a teen
at the sock hop.

He turns me,
and pulls me towards him.
I put my head on his broad chest,
and remember what my second home felt like.
Sitting on the sofa,
watching ridiculous television
and action-packed thrillers.
I would lean my body against his side,
and let his arm around me tighten.

He won’t be there on the day
I’ve planned since I was five.
So tonight, in my dress,
I twirl myself to the piano
keys slowly building,
and let chin and cheeks
become soaked with missing him.

Bare and heartbroken,
I am honest with my grief.