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Literature Text
Ian liked to hear
me singing, because
he felt my emotions
more when I did it.
He could tell that I
was having a bad
day, just by whether
I was hitting the high
notes or changing them.
He would sit there and
play his classical guitar,
quiet and smiling at me
when our eyes met over
the notes and strings.
I heard myself only with
pen and paper, let myself
out only with pen and paper.
So I always wondered how
he could know me so well
through my voice and our
music. Until it hit me,
that it was our music,
and he felt it as much as I.
Now through pen and paper
I miss him and want him,
but now I'm singing it all out,
wishing he could hear it,
join me,
and feel me again at last.
me singing, because
he felt my emotions
more when I did it.
He could tell that I
was having a bad
day, just by whether
I was hitting the high
notes or changing them.
He would sit there and
play his classical guitar,
quiet and smiling at me
when our eyes met over
the notes and strings.
I heard myself only with
pen and paper, let myself
out only with pen and paper.
So I always wondered how
he could know me so well
through my voice and our
music. Until it hit me,
that it was our music,
and he felt it as much as I.
Now through pen and paper
I miss him and want him,
but now I'm singing it all out,
wishing he could hear it,
join me,
and feel me again at last.
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