Music Box

What's left when your gone?

A music box with a broken lid

Still playing a graceful waltz

Watching the tiny keys pluck the braille

While I imagine you brushing my hair

You're talking to me from afar

Not words at all, but whispers of moving air

Death has a way of doing that

When I think of you, words don't come

I hear music in the air instead

You're singing in the kitchen

You're hand are wet with soapy water

The hands that brushed my hair, that wiped my tears

When I cry now, I wind the music box again

I close my eyes,

I hum a tune

You're teaching me to ride a bike 

I'm falling again, but you catch me

And raise me up