‹ Prequel: In the Month of May
One-Hundred Days
Day Eight: Playing the Melody
I sing the words and you play the melody I have yet unwritten in my mind.
It is times like these when I believe we are meant together, that I have found my other half, when I sing a strand of words for you, and you play out the melody on worn strings that fits perfectly.
My words and your melodies, they fit together like picture perfect puzzle pieces. They are different, two different scenes from two different pictures, and yet the edges meet each other and the curves swell into and delve away from each concave barrier. Nothing but our hands and bodies meet with such perfection.
No one else notices as I let every word that is running through my mind fall from my lips that neither of us have any idea of what we are doing. I am sifting through my scattered brain for words that fit like we do, but find only a spare few, and I can tell that you are merely waiting and anticipating the rhythm of the words that exit my throat so that you may play a melody to wrap its warm around the words.
No one notices that we are only going on instinct and familiarity of each other.
They applaud as if the song was one we had been practicing for years and years, perfecting each and every little note and syllable.
It seems like quite the miracle, doesn't it? That my words and your melodies fit so well together. They fit so well, it seems as if they come from the same worn heart, cut up and bandaged at every ripped seam. We both have tattered hearts, ripped in some places, worn in others, and even those uneven edges match perfectly when held to each other in an embrace.
We play the melody resting inside of our hearts, uneven yet still matching.
My words to compliment your melody played out on worn strings as tired as our eyes.
It seems as if a miracle occurs when we collide, but we are simply playing the melody.
It is times like these when I believe we are meant together, that I have found my other half, when I sing a strand of words for you, and you play out the melody on worn strings that fits perfectly.
My words and your melodies, they fit together like picture perfect puzzle pieces. They are different, two different scenes from two different pictures, and yet the edges meet each other and the curves swell into and delve away from each concave barrier. Nothing but our hands and bodies meet with such perfection.
No one else notices as I let every word that is running through my mind fall from my lips that neither of us have any idea of what we are doing. I am sifting through my scattered brain for words that fit like we do, but find only a spare few, and I can tell that you are merely waiting and anticipating the rhythm of the words that exit my throat so that you may play a melody to wrap its warm around the words.
No one notices that we are only going on instinct and familiarity of each other.
They applaud as if the song was one we had been practicing for years and years, perfecting each and every little note and syllable.
It seems like quite the miracle, doesn't it? That my words and your melodies fit so well together. They fit so well, it seems as if they come from the same worn heart, cut up and bandaged at every ripped seam. We both have tattered hearts, ripped in some places, worn in others, and even those uneven edges match perfectly when held to each other in an embrace.
We play the melody resting inside of our hearts, uneven yet still matching.
My words to compliment your melody played out on worn strings as tired as our eyes.
It seems as if a miracle occurs when we collide, but we are simply playing the melody.