Each time I go back to listen, I think she sings for me, when
I know she isn’t, stirring up in me the old thoughts about who is she wrote the
words for, this phantom whose influence stretches across all these decades,
faceless to me, not to her, words filled with pangs of pain I wonder if she
still feels, and knowing these are not for me, I got back again and again,
pretending they are, or might be, since I might have caused her as much pain at
the phantom did.
I listen to her songs, aching to hear something in them I
know can not possible be there, at least, not for me, and yet, I got back,
needing to hear her voice, even when the words are remote, the rise and fall,
the intensity only she can call up, stir up in me, if not for me, a constant
refrain of pain I need to hear and wish I could heal.
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