(Dispatches from an unwritten novel…)IMG_0473

SHE’S NOT THERE

Well no one told me about her…

I am laying on my back in my bed and I am surrounded by thoughts of you, only they dance around my head like notes on a staff. Sharps and flats whole notes & halves. No one told me it could be like this – to meet someone who causes chords and melodies to spill out of every crack & crevice – every indentation – each and every ideation. This approximation of love. Once wanted, then wounded, then wound and unwound. Reaching for something never to be found. She’s not there, but she is. In every thought. Every plucked string. Every beat of the drum. I am lying in this bed full of no words to describe only music. Each touch splinters into sonata. Every tremble a tremolo.

 

I go to sleep these days, my guitar next to me like her body should be. I strum her as I slumber. I stumble out of bed in the morning, temporarily displaced. Disconnected from my amplifier. I find notes from her, strewn in out of the way places. She’s here. She’s not there. She is everywhere.

***

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