I told you to keep singing,
Even though you were tone deaf.
Because you loved it
And hoped one day to make something of it.
Although mostly because I could see
It was what you loved.
You were born to make music
Spring from your fingers
And your lungs
And your pores
Undeniable and important.
In striving to find yourself in the
Meandering chords and melodies
You would dissapear.
Head bent into that guitar
As if you were falling
Into a stringed rabbit hole.
Your eyes closed,
Or simply not seeing.
Not hearing anything else but the song
Realeased from your fingertips,
Wavering into the air through your imperfect voice.
When you asked me about it
I would tell you white lies.
Knowing that my ears too are imperfect,
and remembering that there were moments.
Small and sometimes nearly lost in the confusion
Of flat sharps and broken phrasing.
The static would clear,
And that one pure sound
Would escape your lips.
Your sound
Flying out into the world
In perfect timbre.
