I used to write songs, and you would give melody to my lyrics. And you would sing it for me, and I would listen while imagining that the words came from you and not from me.
We were quite a tandem then. With you and your guitar and your heavenly sent voice and charming looks, and with me and my pen, and my words, and my hope for our future. Two young people ready to conquer the world with music, melody, and words.
I guess it was all too much for you. The pressure, the noise, the attention, and being alone on the stage. You, always in the spotlight and I contentedly watching in the background.
I thought it was what you want. I wish I had seen the panic in your eyes everytime you step on the stage. I wish I had known why your eyes keep searching for me in the crowd, and why you always held my hand tighter just before your performance. I wish I’d known that you just wanted to sing for me and not for everyone else. I wish I’d known that you never wanted to conquer the world with your music, but just my heart. I wish I’d known, because I would tell you then that love, you already did, you already have my heart, and we could stop creating music and I wouldn’t care as long as I have you.
I wish I’d known that you’d never wanted anyone else attention, that you are contented with our own little world, and that everytime I let go of your hand for you to walk on the stage, I’m letting you go piece by piece. Until one day, you never came back.
When you left me, all my written lyrics become half unfinished love poems, and love letters, a string of inchoherent words without melody, without sound, but always with you.
Love, it was always written for you.