The last page, cloying sugar of

maple syrup and ripened persimmons,

singing arias through the air in my
dimly lit corner of the universe

feet on an unmade bed and a splayed smile
as the languid mezzo is drawn across bowed lips

Reflected, refracted
in prisms of darkened chromebook screens,
long forgotten

a meager desk lamp lights the rosin dust afire
on rich oak floorboards, grounded by the bass

Hours meandered through
marked only by the worried flick of pages
punctuating still air

pulse panging unintelligibly in
reverberating ribs, irony strung in fragility

haphazard notes adorn staves
of neat stoic ink

the rise and folly of lives,
a melody, a reminicing theme
crescendos to a perfect pitch
you didn't know you needed

an exhale,

a thud,

revealing the lazy scrawl of
lined notebook sheets underneath

Yet still,
listless fingertips sweep
rounds on the closed cover
tacit circles of applause,

spotlights shine through curtains of red limned eyes
sated, brimming with unconcealed contentment

making each and every minor chord worth
the final major