I fell for him, not in whispers or sighs,
But in crescendos, in rhythms, in skies
Painted with notes that danced in the air,
Each song a thread of the love we’d share.
He wasn’t just music—he was the sound,
The hum of the earth, the pulse underground.
A genre, a chord, a tune soft and true,
Would echo his soul, would carry his hue.
But now he is gone, and silence remains,
A hollow refrain, a ghost in the strains.
Yet when music plays, I’m drawn to the year,
I search for a sign he might have been near.
Did he hum this tune? Did he hear this beat?
Did it brush his soul? Was it his retreat?
The thought is a comfort, though bittersweet,
A harmony bridging where life and death meet.
For love like this does not fade away,
It lingers in songs, in chords that replay.
So I listen, I wonder, I dream him alive,
Through melodies where his spirit survives