Her music plays in my head even when I'm not hooked into
hers website, or listening to the songs she gave me or the others I stole off
the internet, some she wrote about someone she loved, others written by others
she makes her own
when she sings I hear
it all even when I walk alone, her songs are the songs of the river and the air,
the landscape I shape in my head from back when she put it all together
Not all her songs happy, most not, of heartache, of passion,
one past of which I share while her voice speaks to shadows of people long ago,
far away, of people I will never know while I sometimes -- in the dark of night -- pretend they are for me, even though I man the
target of discord echoes, the rage she has experienced, the hatred she harbors
for me and me alone
Her music playing beyond me as part of some universe in
which I play no part, the endless record repeated over and over with me too
scared to pick up the needle, unable to stand the silence I know will hurt me
deeply when the music finally stops -- as it must
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