Your first language after heartbeat:
Music. This foreign tongue, human,
is hard. It works slow and strange
in the mouth, bitter in truth and lies,
its grammar convoluted; the idioms
of face and body incomprehensible
to the non-native, but (carelessly
coached) you tried.
Until you stopped.
“Shut down,” they said: cold divorce.
Of course your heart never closed,
God knows you bled all unspoken
through chord and melody, but the
other, so rarely used, fell dissonant
at her feet.