Your song is like sculpture. She said this to me last night, when all was falling apart and she finally found a way to speak the truth. She was hoping to buffer the loss of us with something poignant, but all it did was remind me of the songs I had never shared with her. We were always destined for the storm-tossed skies, her light in contrast to my sky. But she could reach out when I least expected it, too, like some sort of living and loving replica of art. I still remember the touch of her fingers, like doves in the air. But she had spoken. The mic dropped. I wandered, then, through the woods behind our home, seeking something that would center me back again. A muse. A melody. A sign. And there it was, waiting for me, like a gift. I didn't question it. I took it for what it was and kept on walking into the landscape.
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