You have switched off all your music, you stand
in a room made vast and empty by the silence.
This soundlessness leaves no room for pretence
of comfort; I reach out to touch your hand

and touch a passive, broken stranger. Here
I am powerless; I cannot fill this space,
dare not move half-empty cups, or replace
the dying flowers whose scent fills the air.

I stand here on the threshold of your pain:
you did not turn me away, nor quite invite
me in. Now I feel I have no right
to give you flowers, or switch your music on again.

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