A strangle hold of memory
Deep roots in rich soil have traveled time and distance
To make fallow fields fruitful once more
An outline of your smile waxes fully in my vision
Weathered fingertips brush gently the dusted edges of dried petals
I can still smell you here among the shadows of winter
Of all the seasons to leave me breathless the cold shell of February
Lends a poetic air to your loss
I'll keep writing of my sorrow, my tenderness
For you will always have a place in my garden
Even if I let it grow wild with weeds and whispers

I guess, it started with that,
That umbilical cord.
Detached I am, from her,
Yet she is the only one, I feel belonged to.

Life is a melody
      You can listen to only once.

    The first thirty seconds, you find the groove,
         it's appealing
    A harmonious rhythm hereto unwritten
                    
       This could be your favorite.


 
             It is.
       For the next three minutes, you settle in.
               The chorus comes around.

          *You'll be here again.
                  It's fresh, it's catchy
You're enraptured by these certain pitches and the words rhyme perfectly.
   One line flowing into the next, the ends justifying the means.
       Another verse, another chorus. This one feels more weathered
          Routine, maybe. You still feel that groove but your perspective of it has been altered by the change in tempo and direction during the last verse.
               

           You realize you have fifteen seconds left.
         This was your song. What did you do with it?


       *As you think back, a gentle blanket of white noise embraces everything that ever was, and your song fades