among his nothing

I find him reading in his study, pouring over ancient books in languages that are considered dead.  his back is to me, but I can see the muscles in his shoulders work as he writes down feverishly.  I lay against the door frame quietly and he stills for a moment.  I know he knows I'm there, but he bends over his books again and ignores me.

among deaf concerts

of course the deaf one would  be famous.  he is a Beethoven- a Beethoven of violins, a modern-day genius, a prodigy: something uncommon, something forgotten.  he is brilliant.   his music is sad, melodies which materialize and whisper thei tragic stories to me.  I have heard his tragic story too: a boy left alone, a boy on his own.  a bo who can't hear, a boy with useless ears.  And yet, against all doubt and all odds, a boy who succeeds, a boy who brings hope.

among the boathouse I

Feet in constant movement,
my hands are in the air.
My skirt rustles around me,
and my bracelets create their music.
Bodies pressed against mine,
sweat and laughter in the atmosphere.
The deaf one is showcasing his talent,
and the golden one watches with pride.
I can't find him but I know he's here.
I wish he'd dance with me.

among his emptiness

like the deaf one,
like the golden one,
I went to see his room
and in it I found:
nothing.

among the golden one's sanctuary

his smiles hide secrets and
he's impossible to read.
not a closed book but
like a book unwritten.
his room only adds to
his radiance and charisma.
clean, yet charming, with
creamy walls and plush carpet.
but I see him- see him truly
in his paintings on his walls.
I see him in his oceans,
I see him in his meadows,
I see him in his forests,
I see him in his countrysides,
and then I fully realize,
that as I view these paintings
of sad people in beautiful scenery,
that his impeccable charm,
has left him undeniably lonely.

among the deaf one's room

I enter his room,
to find it empty:
empty of spirity but not of soul.
Notes are scattered,
the bed is unmade:
only his violin seems pristine.
I enter his room,
unannounced but nor unwelcome:
on his stand lay his music, handwritten.
It feels like a sanctuary,
like it is something sacred:
as if his walls can whisper his secrets.
I enter his room,
and I see his music:
to find that he is writing it for me.

among their manor

I am  in the backyard of their manor, where everything I think and believe comes to life. They are there; the deaf one plays the flute so beautifully that it breaks my heart. The golden one plays the cello and we dance and dance and dance. Our hands move rapidly playing games that are reminiscent of our childhood and he is leaning against the door frame, watching us. I wish he would join in.
He looks at me. My breath stops.
please don't wake me up.

among him

it is a rarity that I can see him.
when he is not locked in his study,
or locked in his master bedroom,
or hard at work doing God-knows-what,
I can find him on the balcony.
he smokes a cigarette and leans
against the railing with a small
smile playing against the corner of his lips.
and when I look to where he is looking,
I see children playing tag in the vast meadow,
or women sitting on the patio drinking martini's
or a couple holding hands and laughing-
I think I'm seeing what he wants me to see.
I think I'm seeing what he wants to be.

among the golden one

his eyes are stormy, dark and gray
but somehow they maintain a twinkle.
his hair is shiny and gold, falling over
his forehead in the most careless way.
his smile is bright and white and only
adds to the confidence and charm
that seem to seep out of his every pore.
he laughs at all the right moments
and listens with seeming intent
but I always wonder just how
deep his overwhelming charm lies.

among the deaf one

his purity and naiivete are a constant surprise;
something so beautiful and so divine.
he looks like a cherub with his white
blonde hair and sky blye eyes set in
milk white and perfect skin.
he can't hear hatred and he can't hear sadness.
all he hears is that music in his head
and it plays incessantly, he signs to me.

among beginnings

The house is huge and stark and empty,
with testosterone flooding the crevices.
Paintings, books and dust and soap:
this is their scent, the scent of these men.
The golden one grins and I know he's the charmer.
The deaf one is celestially sweet.
And the other- I can't figure.
A mystery.
My time here has only just begun.