Was it You? (sestina)

Was it you who crept into my room
in the dark, wild mystery
of snores like grandeur symphonies?
Remind me if it will be you again -
my memory complains of lack of personal space
and who am I to overwork the poor dear.

Wringing her hands on a ratty dish towel, she repeats "oh dear, oh dear, oh dear"
in the damp, velvet room,
her eyes wide with white space;
letting the words escape through exhales, as if that would disband the mystery -
to repeat them over and over again.
Methodically picking at the violin strings, she plays a furthering symphony.

"Is that a heartbeat? Or is it the timpani sounding the start of the symphony?"
Or perhaps it is my conscious saying, 'You need a breath mint, dear.'
Perhaps it is instead the incessant words bubbling out again,
seeping into the corners of the room
lit with the same mystery
as white noise in a blank space.

But what is it anyway? Space -
that is. And again she plays her symphony
sputtering "Where did it all go - the fallen mystery?"
She's only claiming one dear;
the one who crept into my room,
the one who was thieving once again.

Again and again and again
like crawling through molding space
was a hobby that didn't want to make room
for a new symphony.
"Oh dear.
Where did all the mystery

go?" Her mystery
refuses to remember again
how the felt shoes crept in singing "don't you forget, dear";
prancing around the quiet space
making their own symphony
illuminate my room.

That's why I don't make her remember, and make room
for the stale symphony
in the forgotten space letting myself ask, "where did all the mystery go?"