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When I listen

By Charles Kivolowitz

Section: Arts

February 29, 2008

When I listen, I see a woman.

I do not know her face, or her name, but she has brown hair, and pale white skin.

I do not know where she is, but only that she is here, she comes to me with no context, no back ground, no reason.

She wears a silky blue dress, light, like the sky, or the same dress, but in crème.

Her dress flows, and my eyes with it, enthralled by its liquid motion, and I can almost see her face.

I love this woman.

I worship the ground she walks on, but I know not where she walks. The music is my door, my portal to her, and the only way I can see her. It is as if she is in a glass bubble, and I am outside looking in, longing, loving, and untouching.

My fingers brush the glass, and I feel a slight electric thrill in the tips, comforting at first, but slowly it becomes more painful until my face breaks in its serenity.

I do not take my hand away, to do so would be to break our bond.

No, instead I stand and take it, and I cry out.

I cry out for love, for closeness, for her, for her warmth and her touch. I cry out because she is just beyond my reach, she is my high, my drug, my love, and I cannot reach her.

She is my unquenchable thirst, and I drink her in voraciously, but it is never enough.

I cannot stop, and I cannot ignore.

No matter how long I look into her, she never is uninteresting or monotonous, she never ceases to amaze me in every move she makes, every sound she utters.

She is my paragon.

Her voice is smooth, though distorted by the bubble, serene, yet sad. She longs for me, and I for her, but we are two strangers at a distance. I love her, and she me, though we know each other not.

In minutes, my portal will close; I will be forced to find a new song, a new way in.

Too late.

I love, I love, I love and I have lost.

I must listen again.

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