I
There’s a song you know, 
playing on the other side of the wall 
though you don’t know who plays it, 
only that you are listening with her, 
hearing her as her voice picks up the lyrics 
from the music and carries them in her throat. 
You have heard this song but you’ve never  
heard another voice use its words.

II
This is not a song you know, 
though the wall is like the pink  
you once had in your bedroom, 
and the color feels warm around your eyes— 
you are seeing into her window
from the street below and  
there is a picture hanging, 
but you won’t make it out. 
The car and its radio passes by 
before you have time step in front of it  
and ask what the picture looks like.

III
She tells you she’s working on something new 
and that these are the lyrics  
and that this is what she thinks her sound is 
and that thank god they’re not as sad as the last ones 
and you read them 
and you wonder what they will sound like 
but you cannot hear them,  
not yet.

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