It was last night that I felt the need to write your name. I hadn't had the need to write that name in eight years,
But that night.
That night it was a compulsion, an obsession that no man should ever give way to, fearing that he may never find his way back. I was thinking about the past and reflecting over an old handwritten journal entry when I felt the need to write your name. Need is the only word for it.
No fanfare, no fancy alliteration, no whimsical musings of a hack poet.
Just your name on the page reflecting the emptiness, the distance between us now. It's around the time of year when we first met, when seasonal depression brought together two people who simply needed to be needed.
There's that word again.
Truth be told, we were looking for completely different things, but we somehow found them in each other. And it was at that time when our names became irrecoverably linked; said always by our mutual friends in that sing song type of voice.
Maybe that's why I wrote your name.
Our song came up that day on an unmarked mix tape, an old fossil from those days, when we thought that cassettes were "keepin' it real" and CD's just never held the magic we were after.
Is that why I wrote your name?
Choosing each song as a way to caress you when I wasn't around. Each transition a way to keep a light burning in the dark, a way to let you know that I was there, that I would always be there.
Because, we always think,
We always hope,
That we'll always be there.
But the only thing I have left is a name on a page and a song in my head. And I can't help but wondering, when I sing the last song that I'll ever sing, will you know that I sing it to you?