singing:: billy joel: and so it goes
there low tones in my piano keys and i follow their lead. reach for the tempo and turn it to zero, this song isnt going anywhere- a song without movement is no song at all.
it's so cold outside right now. i can see my breath leave me, get heavy, and fall. and all in the stillness that hangs in the air between us.
how many stories can i write to fill this? how many stories do i need to make this disappear, to make this fact to fiction? to make this heavyness light again, to thaw sweetness and resume the sonata? can i bury you in 12 point font, or must it be in sloppy cursive? either way, i have been shoveling for years.
and again and again i strike with dissonant chords... but i cant drown you out, even in minor key. and so, as winter comes, here, already, another winter, i am still singing the same song... just with different lyrics.