Ode to Song

A place that is not a place

A form of transportation across neither sea nor sky

But the highways in our minds

Cerebral traffic

Sounds that resonate

And reverberate

And remind

Of times when the sunshine seemed a little brighter

When the rain didn’t soak the earth to its roots

If music was a tangible thing

It would be Friday nights

Late sunsets, balmy breeze

Fresh laundry warm and wrung with static

Silver stars swimming in a black night

The way that the ocean always crawls back to the shore,

Like an inhale to an exhale

Small things in small parts of big days that become short days when a month doesn’t even last so long

Small, but not insignificant

Small, but meaningful

Sounds that bleed memories

Time travel

A different day, a different place

It’s strange, to think—

The things we say

The way we are today

Will become a yesterday

Become a

Last week

Last month

Last year

Ten years

That the present will become the past and then a faint flicker

 

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