The echo of her songs November 19, 2012

All that remains is the music I hear, sometimes only in my head, sometimes for real songs she sang for some heartbreak that is not mine bittersweet accompanied by an old lover who used to cheat, maybe this music, these songs, are about him, but I think not, too soulful, too much coming from a place inside her nobody can reach, the shell within a shell where her real self resides, the remnants of this life we lead over this short span of time, like fallen notes on a sheet of music played over and over until I foolishly come to believe they were for me, yet it is all that remains, after all else's gone, like the wreckage of a sailing ship washed up on the shore, each piece part of some masterpiece of a sailing vessel nobody can reassemble, only mourn, the songs echoing in all the shells she's lived in so far, hinting at more to come, her secret hideaway inside herself, where no one can find her, only hear the beauty of her voice, as if over the wide sea, lonely but remote

email to Al Sullivan