The door was wide open.
I could hear your fingertips
making innocent prodigious love
to the silent keys.
Wooden floors, high white walls,
sweet kitchen smells and laughter,
stairs that climb like forbidden buttons
never to be undone.
If feet could cross thresholds
of blindness and forgiveness,
my tears would be singing your toes
the saddest love story ever told.
Keeled close against your feet-
four bright eyes never to meet-
your melody might recognise me
as her greatest fan.
Perhaps our harmony
might unveil me tenderly
and out-sing our vulnerability
with her brokenness.
In our home my heart beats,
yet never can I enter;
not to kiss goodbye or close the door
or bury the key.
I have become the ghost
of thirty three Figtree street.
Inside a man composes his dreams.
His unseen shadow weeps.