I miss writing songs
I miss simple lines that can turn hearts to jello, and the yarn I stitched for warmth.
I miss my old friend, now lying dusty and forgotten, his strings rusted and snapped.
I miss the way I sound when words come out my mouth, all a-whisper, all a-hush.
I miss how the melodies flow past my fingers like rivers feeding drunken lakes.
I miss the high of major sevens, I miss the weight of minor keys.
I miss writing songs that pierce the soul, I miss how they prickle my skin.
I miss how friends would gather round the fires my melodies bring.
Maybe someday I’ll get back to it, maybe someday, I’ll sing.
Story