today
I hold my concert on the roof.
I squint at the glare of white;
the beams of the sun are
a poor imitation of spotlights.
two years.
and still
I can hear traces of
my young self: lucid, unwavering, perfect.
they told me not to sing so
I scream the words instead.
my throat burns.
the melody is dissonant
or is it just
my voice that's
imperfect?
sometimes I wonder
if everything is
slipping away with
each
broken
note.
.
.
I climb to the rooftop and
sing to the sky.
does anyone hear me?
I'm here.
--------------------------
Not sure what to think.
And for the record. This isn't about me. :3
