I never saw anyone love music until I met him.

He’d play his guitar ‘till his fingers bled,

Then apologize for the mess he’d made.

I suppose music has been loved before,

But he was in love with it;

With chords, with notes.

He’d complain about winter:

“It’s too cold, too long”--

While I made snowmen.
Our winter wasn’t long enough.

When flowers bloomed we blew smoke rings out the bathroom window

And wondered where they went,

Like balloons, like thoughts, like music—

They’d rise.
He’d sigh and lament gravity.

“My dreams are concertos,”

He explained, looking past me.

I often watched his eyes close

And wondered if
To him,
I was just a song.