October 20, 2007

• Sing To Me

  Your heart, trapped in barbed wire or maybe open breathing fresh and radiant. Your heart speaks and mumbles and shouts and grunts and, well, sex noises. You know.

  Your heart whispers and you bend over to hear and it’s still quiet and you don’t know what else to do. Your heart is speaking barely more than a breath a sigh fog on a mirror.

  Lean in, close your eyes, cup your hands, listen. Tell everyone else to shut up, you’re trying to hear. Take your heart to a quiet place, still can’t hear. Take it to a quieter place, almost, not quite. Take it someplace quieter still.

  You wonder why I’m telling you to do this.

  Listening to your heart, quieter, the faintest touch of a sound, the smallest sound you ever tried to hold in your hands without crushing, delicate.

  Your heart is speaking. It’s telling you how a song goes. It remembers a song from a long time ago, and it’s trying to remember the chorus. Oh yeah, that tune, the one where.. Wait… Which one again? The chorus, the chorus.. It had something about… Man. Man. I wish I could remember.

  Your heart can’t remember the song, though it’s trying. Maybe from that AM transistor radio you had when you were ten. You’d switch stations all the time just to feel the knob under your fingers and hear that khrick splazzle spit shtrong of between stations. That’s not the song your heart is trying to remember.

  Listen.. Listen…. No static..

  It’s remembering, and the song is there. Pure and sweet and loud. Yeah, that song. Yeah! It’s all coming back. Like yesterday, like ten minutes ago, all there, available. How could you have forgotten?

  Please. Please do me this favor:

  Sing that song to me.

  • 6:22 am
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