I can’t stop listening to that damn song.
From when the snow wasn’t falling,
and the world, our world, was still
Your hand traced along the stitched leather
searching for mine.
It was uncomfortable, tiresome, and perfect.
I should’ve known then,
how I was seen.
Today you can strum your guitar again,
and I’ll keep my pen behind my ear.
Learn the chords
and I’ll write out the lyrics.
Your hand will reach for mine again
and it will be shaky,
with nothing left to say.