Rosalie wrote frantically,
Conspicuously cognizant of her own unintelligible ciphers:
She threw down her pain and rain
"In the space in-between, he does not love me! In the space in between she cries, but he does not call! He does not show tenderness in his voice."
For if his sweet breath was heard so heavy and sultry. She surely would have broke.
Her inflamed heart never heals
She, creature of solitude, yearns for the caress of his voice like hers-
matched in depth of timbre
No songs no sound
Lay upon her breast
Only sorrow weighs within her head
Empty pitch inflections
Accustomed to his own rhythm
Unaware of the romance of his rhythmic richness
For if he were reflective of his echoes
Would he be taken with pity and seize his fallacious cantor and false love?
If only to save her from falling once more... Bleeding... Open ... In the mud???