Crescendo

Somebody close to me is hurting.
I don't know who it is
or what has happened,
but uneasiness has settled upon me.
It's almost musical—
a quality I would enjoy
under different circumstances:
my nerves reverberate
as though they have been plucked;
my heart beats, drum-like and hard;
soon my teeth might join in
chattering in syncopation.
I'm in a slow crescendo
which can only be silenced
when I hear that all is well,
or fall into sleep,
whichever comes first.