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.