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The Songwriter

“The girl you wrote that song about, it’s me, isn’t it?”

“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 seas of wondering what it means to be written about.

“Is that okay?” she asks, her voice small and delicate. Like a glass sculpture. As if she isn’t the one who knocks the skyscrapers in my mind down with just a breath of her lyrics.

“You mean is it okay that you write about me?” I ask, and I sit up and twist around so that I can look into her brown eyes. Those eyes are dark, like clouds that linger on rotten days. But they’re also deep, like a cavern you look into and wonder if it ever ends.

She nods and I lean back against her. Her feathery hair rests back against my forehead. The song changes to something lighter, softer, like it’s a pop song made for ballerinas.

“Definitely okay,” I say, and a smile creeps onto my face, “I knew it.” 

She laughs next to me, a subtle vibration like an uneven beat you almost overlook. But it’s not something I want to overlook. The subtle touches are sometimes the best parts. Sometimes the forgotten, broken couches house hallowed moments.


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