View Larger We love the place we hate,
then hate the place we love
We leave the place we love,
then spend a lifetime trying to regain it
I can write my words into musical notes
with a lack of creativity
gimme the words, I’ll draw the notes
Simple, without a tune, I’ll give you rhythm.
I’d like to play with your instrumentation,
though really we could just skip that.
Let’s write some music.
More words on a page.
Rhythms not like heartbeats
because that’s too old fashioned.
I don’t want romantic slow beats,
I like punctuated sounds with rests and holds,
Like catching your breath in the middle of a song;
even pianists forget to breath.
Hands move over keys; hands move over bodies.
Mistakes are made and notes are dropped.
The music sometimes stops short.
Redos don’t really work outside of the practice room.
I can play one bar twenty times til my head spins but at least,
my fingers got it.
People don’t work that way.
There is no replay, no practice session alone,
with love there is no pause long enough, there is no coda.
What’s played is played.
Everyone is listening.
They can hear you skip a note in love more
than they can hear it in the music
(I’ve played enough horrible pieces that have ended in applause
to know that).
When playing with love,
you’re always on the stage.
And sometimes there is no applause.
There is no encore.
You leave your music behind.
