There’s some orchestras in my life, some various noises and crescendos,
some conductors and players who haven’t practiced their lines enough. I am the
later, I forget my role and my lines, but am faking along anyway. It is a
supportive role; I am here from the ambiance, for the presence.
My love has been the same way, she no longer sings like she
used to. She fakes it now, among other things, and blames it on inspiration and
lack of outlet. She claims she’ll fly away come summer, but I doubt it.
And we see each other at night, the music and dialogue
between us resolve and we sit down. Enjoying one another, but only for a
second. It is a rare and miraculous clicking, one that used to happen often.
I meet another girl in my life, a dancer, and she walks on
her tips toes. It is a difficult transition, from someone creating the music to
one who interpreting it. She has broad shoulders,
but she is not who I thought she was.
There is cardboard scattered along the house now, like an alley
in the city I used to live in. Even the darker memories from that city seem
bright now. The singer says I am the one who moved away and left, but she was
gone long before.
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