His songs would form a story,
Of two passionate lovers,
Of their passionate love.
Whenever a new movie came out,
Whenever he saw the poster of it on a wall,
He had to see it.
He believed art existed everywhere,
Believed in inspiring others,
And being inspired.
He would tell me to hurry up
Or we would miss the movie
I told him he was being foolish,
He would laugh at that.
In the cold outside the movie theater,
I stood holding the tickets in my hand,
While he bought the popcorn.
He would watch a movie every Saturday night,
And all the while he watched the movie,
His eyes would never leave the screen.
As the movie ended,
He would close his eyes for a minute,
Taking in all he had seen,
Turn towards me and smile,
That’s how I knew he liked the movie.
In his Chevy all the way towards home,
He would talk about his theories,
Talk about ideas about songs he could write on them,
Then he would ask me if I liked the movie,
I tell him I did,
I tell him how I was inspired too.
Whatever I spoke he would listen,
I could see he loved to hear me,
Just the same as I loved to listen to his voice.

I fell in love with a man out of a black and white movie,
With his pretty voice,
His black eyes and white tie,
He charmed me.
At the record store,
Browsing out vinyls,
In his stripped suit,
He reminded me of an old motel room,
That had seen love a thousand times,
In a thousand phases,
His fingertips calloused,
As if he spent days on a piano perfecting a melody.
He looked like someone,
Who knew how to define words,
How to make them his own,
A cigarette between his lips,
And the love between the shop alleys,
It seemed as if he had done it all.
He tips his hat at any musician in the street,
He bought movie tickets every Saturday night,
And performed at a club,
With beauty and sheer desire,
It was an art,
For him to be himself and me loving him.

hope and fear,
were they not born,
with the same bones and blood.
were they not birthed on the same night,
the night of darkness and mystery.

But they were separated at birth,
even before the opened their eyes,
they were separated.

what is hope if not born of fear,
and fear if not to give hope,
they are both so different,
one drives away ,
the other drives within.

But are they that different,
one who lives because of fear,
is the same one who lives for hope,

do they both not come together,
do the not have their own secrets,
their lies,
their truths.

oh! what beautiful things the are,
hope and fear,
born on the same tree,
but in different places.