It was an art,
For him to be himself and for me to love him.
His eyes resembled broken records,
As he stared into mine,
And as he looked into his music sheet,
He would at times smile,
As if he solved a mystery,
As if he knew the perfect fit to his piece of art.
He would sing to me the lyrics to his song,
Asked me what could he change,
But all those words sounded so lovely.
He looked for inspiration,
In art and love,
In the little corner shops and movies.
On the snowy nights and summer days,
You could catch him looking outside the window,
A cigar in his hands,
And records on play.
"Le clair de lune sur la rivière,
Vos goûts sur mes lèvres"
He would start his song,
Those words he would sing,
With his beautiful tune,
In his lovely voice.
His first performance,
He sung an original song,
And the crowd’s eyes on him,
On the capturing beauty of his words.
And when he caught me looking at him through the crowd,
He smiled.
His songs would form a story,
Of two passionate lovers,
Of their passionate love.