I Hope You Still Sing
I hope you still sing.
How could I ever forget?
Some evenings I sit down at the piano in our sun room. It is mismatched in corners--a subtle discord lost midst furniture and windows and pictures of family. In the winter, it is a bitter cold at my feet, and in the summer it is stuffy, and makes my spirit calk. There used to be breezes in this room, and only thin screens separated us from the noise of the main road, and the outside air.
I sit at the piano in our sun room and prod at keys, following simple melodies that come easy to untrained hands. I look for lyrics that get me past the fog inside my head, or sing in tongues, letting my voice do the talking while my mouth twists it up into meaningless, sweet-sounding garbage.
When I was younger, I would make little paper action figures the same way--twisting strips of paper into limbs and digits, and folding and scrunching balls to make heads. A boy named Josh showed me how, and we would make guns and have them fight one another , or just practice at creating finer and finer pieces.
I hope you still sing.
I hope you still feel things.
I am lost this evening in the voices of people I used to know, and missing singing with them. I miss the new things they taught me. Crass lyrics about little secrets, and memorizing the entire Transatlanticism album.
You scared me so badly that I didn't know what to do with the thoughts in my head.
It was one of the last good cries I had before I could only ever tear up at things, or convulse--little fits of maintaining self-control.
I hope you still sing.
I could never forget.
I remember what not listening did to me. I saved what you said for years after we talked and let our conversation subside naturally, in the throes of our separate lives. I found it on accident with new phones, and I had to hold onto my heart every single time. I had to apologize to you over and over in my head. I had to apologize to myself. I had to face my impotence, and the drama that comes with needing a car and needing friends with cars.
I remember how you smelled, the stink of things I didn't have the courage to try--me some lanky asshole too busy sitting around to share things worth sharing.
But I hope to god that you still sing.
I hope that it comes to you on long walks, and in showers, and in crowded hallways, and I hope it never stops.
I sing less. I stifle myself in the face of people who don't want to hear it. I save it for the solitude of the Riverwalk, or my own room. I save it for fumbling in front of the piano. I stick to songs that will make people laugh when I'm among them, for fear of the continual want for silence in the face of songs I actually want people to hear.
I will never forget.
I hope you sing, and I hope I stumble into you when you're singing.
I hope we have been finding the same songs all of this time, and if not, I hope I can share them with you if we meet again, and that you'll be willing to listen.
I hope you still sing.
How could I ever forget?
Some evenings I sit down at the piano in our sun room. It is mismatched in corners--a subtle discord lost midst furniture and windows and pictures of family. In the winter, it is a bitter cold at my feet, and in the summer it is stuffy, and makes my spirit calk. There used to be breezes in this room, and only thin screens separated us from the noise of the main road, and the outside air.
I sit at the piano in our sun room and prod at keys, following simple melodies that come easy to untrained hands. I look for lyrics that get me past the fog inside my head, or sing in tongues, letting my voice do the talking while my mouth twists it up into meaningless, sweet-sounding garbage.
When I was younger, I would make little paper action figures the same way--twisting strips of paper into limbs and digits, and folding and scrunching balls to make heads. A boy named Josh showed me how, and we would make guns and have them fight one another , or just practice at creating finer and finer pieces.
I hope you still sing.
I hope you still feel things.
I am lost this evening in the voices of people I used to know, and missing singing with them. I miss the new things they taught me. Crass lyrics about little secrets, and memorizing the entire Transatlanticism album.
You scared me so badly that I didn't know what to do with the thoughts in my head.
It was one of the last good cries I had before I could only ever tear up at things, or convulse--little fits of maintaining self-control.
I hope you still sing.
I could never forget.
I remember what not listening did to me. I saved what you said for years after we talked and let our conversation subside naturally, in the throes of our separate lives. I found it on accident with new phones, and I had to hold onto my heart every single time. I had to apologize to you over and over in my head. I had to apologize to myself. I had to face my impotence, and the drama that comes with needing a car and needing friends with cars.
I remember how you smelled, the stink of things I didn't have the courage to try--me some lanky asshole too busy sitting around to share things worth sharing.
But I hope to god that you still sing.
I hope that it comes to you on long walks, and in showers, and in crowded hallways, and I hope it never stops.
I sing less. I stifle myself in the face of people who don't want to hear it. I save it for the solitude of the Riverwalk, or my own room. I save it for fumbling in front of the piano. I stick to songs that will make people laugh when I'm among them, for fear of the continual want for silence in the face of songs I actually want people to hear.
I will never forget.
I hope you sing, and I hope I stumble into you when you're singing.
I hope we have been finding the same songs all of this time, and if not, I hope I can share them with you if we meet again, and that you'll be willing to listen.
I hope you still sing.