This is like the time I wrote to you at the bookstore. I felt so detached from the world. I heard the voices of shoppers pouring over the isles in a muffled code. I couldn’t decipher their words because I was too far under my own thoughts.
Now, though I can read your words across the void, I can’t understand their melody. It’s note-less in its presentation. I don’t even know if hearing them, without seeing your face, would remedy this broken score.
So.
Instead.
I’m trying to write melodies for myself only to find that every note is sour. Every word is insincere. My paper is blotted, my pen is dry, and I have no guidance or perception. Every sheet is almost written. Come back. Help me fill these pages with a calibrated harmony. You were always more adept in this process because your music lies under your thoughts just as I lie within them.
This is like the time we exchanged stories of our lovers. No matter how endearing the stories, they always ended the same way. Broken over an insistent whisper that said, “Your heart occupies another’s”.
