Whispered Imagination

The sun beats down perfectly onto your reddened head.
Sunbeams or moonbeams,
my mind cannot handle.
Swirling gently on top of you,
a spiral of magnificent vindication of the grace that
I molded you into
within my mind.

The beams danced a smooth waltz on the cowlick that I once
touched with hesitant fingers,
shapes twirling and moving to the music that only I heard.
The music you struggled to drown but instead
magnified with your own sweet alto.

The music box of your warm hair spinning relentlessly
in a dizzying cycle of disappointment.
The left- right motion swaying out of harmony,
out of balance
out of orbit
out of control

The focus dims and I can barely notice your golden halo,
twirling about my tearing eyes,
ripping as a perfect melody to accompany your
cacophony of pain
the pain woven out of thin air so that you could sing your majesty,
and so that I could listen.

For I was meant to listen.