This is to the note that makes no sound,
still it echoes like a distant drum.
This is for the leaf that falls, but never lands,
twirling aimless hoping one day to touch ground.
This thought was for the lost love letter,
discarded and misplaced.
This was for that distant muse,
tugging gently on my strings,
pulling me out of bed to write,
for no one in the middle of the night.
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