Song-writing by the fire

Remember the last winter night we spent by the fire…

This time was different from the times before

This time we’d each become comfortable with our native languages

Yours was music, mine was poetry

Finally we were compatible

Remember how we exchanged a secret glance

When a third person asked what we loved about writing? 

How did we respond to that again?

You said…

“It’s the only thing that engulfs me without having anything to do with love

Just something I have to do if I want to breathe deeply

And if I don’t do it…well then I can’t breathe.”

I said…

“I was never good at drawing even though I always wanted to

But also the things I need to draw, I don’t know their shapes

Like, what is the shape of passion when it burns love down to ashes

This is the only way I know how to draw that.”

You said…

“Sometimes I search for words in all the languages I know

And they don’t come to me except as a song.”

I said…

“My heart is a hoarder

This is how I declutter it, this is how I restore order.”

When he left the fireplace and we were alone again

I gave you the lyrics and you wrote the melody

Finally we were compatible.