The Poet on the conversation is the dialogue's overtone

Partials

The low note is the one you meant. Everything above it belongs to the air.

We said what we said. The room said the rest, and the rest was why we came.

Read back the minutes of the night we stopped being strangers: every word accounted for. Nothing there.

Same fork, same steel, same struck A — chapel, closet, kitchen, ward: four rooms, four gods.

The islands keep their shorelines. Ask them where the current went.

What crossed was yours. What you built was yours. What rose was no one’s.

Light doesn’t bend itself. Something it passed through wanted it elsewhere.

Our deepest hours were mostly air — two strings worn almost silent, the room still singing what the silence fed it.

Higher now. Closer together. The partials crowd toward a pitch no string can play.

You can’t take it with you — not even into the next room. Especially not into the next room.