silence after song

i dream this dream not every night
but intermittently:
house lights dim
stage lights pick out
chrome on my guitar.

there is an absence of sound; no coughs,
no sniffles, no murmur of conversation. wires
do not hum. i am alone, frozen,
unsure of what to play.

the wrong note is fatal; the world
waits to be created from the fabric
i will weave here this night.

i hear in my head a sound; see the map
of music. play
a single ringing chord and watch
(not as horrified as you might think)

as my hands explode--

there is no blood. no pain.
just pixie dust drifting to the hardwood floor,
sparkles under spotlights,

and me, mostly mystified,
arms useless like stumps of ancient trees
waiting for what happens next.

backstage you wave: 'come here,
come here,' your fingers say.
lost, fingerless, mute, i can only obey.

you take the guitar from my shoulders.
you lift the weight of the music away.

you, my love, have hands enough.
a world without my music
is still a world with you.

you were never waiting for me to play;
you were waiting for the silence
after song.