The Songwriter
“Is it me?” I ask, leaning my head on her shoulder. The music is loud in the other room, but here, on a couch forgotten by the party, I’m able to ask what I’ve been waiting to ask. “Is what you?” she asks, putting her head on top of mine. Her hair is soft, like someone put feathers on top of my head. The couch beneath me is broken. A metal beam pokes up from under me like an unwanted guest. I shift, but the metal beam persists. “The girl you wrote that song about, it’s me, isn’t it?” She’s quiet for a long time and I wait. I listen to the music flowing into the room, the bass deep as the ocean. For a moment I’m lost in the
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