I am a twenty year old girl who has just found singing for the first time, and you are the melody that keeps clashing behind my closed teeth. Your name fights, syllable to syllable, colliding against cartilage and making a boxing ring out of my larynx. The vocal coach hums a sweet tune, but my trapped-bee-buzzing might sound a lot like screams if I opened my mouth. Singing and you are much like each other, a language I do not know, a note I cannot reach, a tune I cannot hold. My voice box is a desert- dry and empty except for the occasional cactus and tumbleweed. You are the rain, the assured violin notes of a master violinist universe that plays the music to which the sun, moon and earth all dance to. The curtains fall and rise in a melody of their own. The dance ends, and begins, and ends. I sit alone in the auditorium and wait for syzygy but throughout the settings and risings, it never happens even once. The universe plays dice, the people play dice, and not once in all the mathematical probabilities and coincidences do the stars align so that you come back to me, as you were.