There is homework strewn about,
Stray pencils and rampant equations,
And he is next to me with a guitar,
Fluid mechanics tossed aside for
Metal strings and quivering notes.
Neither makes much sense to me.
I played violin for seven years,
But I never learned to command
Keys and sharps and flats
Just told me where to put my fingers,
But to him
They tell stories.
They leap and prance and laugh from his hands—
He holds them.
This is home for him,
Away from stubborn assignments
And looming futures,
And just when I suspect that he is someplace I can’t follow,
He turns and smiles.
Sometimes I play the strangest games with my head
And get sick with memories
And wish for a vacuum-existence in only present tense,
Because my present tense is so much prettier
Than clingy yesterdays and chancy tomorrows.
My present tense is full of music,
Soaring, brilliant, beautiful music,
And the musician who strums away my relentless anxiety.
It makes no sense to me,
But that doesn’t matter
Because for now,
I’m in a place where moments pass in a time signature,
Strung together by his careful hands
And brought to life by his enamored gaze.
It is in this way that I have come to believe
That everything will be ok after all.
Title subject to change.