Sometimes, at night, when I slip outside into the cold to freeze my brain into shutting up so I can get to sleep, I hear your violin from behind the closed door.
Last night, I just stood there listening to you.
Every note bent and broke inside the empty silence of the deep night. And I could hear so clearly your fingers sliding, moving, feeling your thoughts through your strings with such great practice, and, standing stupidly in the hallway, I heard you performing your deep magic, trying to grasp with music something that you cannot grasp with your hands.
And I could hear you almost find it, coming so close and reaching out to seize whatever you were trying to conjure and I could hear it slip through your fingers, and disappear, and that was it.
I ran outside before you’d emerge to discover me eavesdropping.
I hope you find whatever you’re looking for.
