Sometimes, I hear a song
through someone
else’s headphones,
too quiet to name
but loud enough to feel.
I never ask what it is.
Letting it stay anonymous
feels more honest.
It’s not mine.
I was just near it.
A violin behind a closed door
in an apartment I’ll never enter.
Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me
like a rhythm nobody meant to write.
A man humming in the metro
not to perform,
but because he’s alone
and forgot the world has ears.
There are moments I’ve been completely undone
by a melody I never fully heard.
Half of it lost to the train.
Half of it blurred by walls.
But something in me
was tuned
just right
to catch what escaped.
We think music is what’s played.
But maybe it’s also what passes through
when we weren’t looking.
When we didn’t try to hold it.
Or name it.
Or own it.