I couldn’t catch the tails of all the love songs that drift through the summer air.

I couldn’t fit them in a jar or distill them and give them to you.

I couldn’t find that catch, that thrill, that slow throb, and make it real between you and me.

I couldn’t fit all those stories between my teeth, or carry the tune.

All those memories of moments I fell from love and walked out the door of my silence.

And every time I looked back, and that door was open again.

And love was a gift.

I can’t sing or write, can’t draw, can’t spell.

I can’t tell it like it should be.

So many moments of how I wished it was, caught in a tremor call, a note in the air.

I wanted to store them up, to add their names to a list of the elect.

That they could be a choir beside me, telling my story. Telling us.

Telling us, even when we’re gone, when the hall has filled with silence.

A quietness so small for something so great.

So many songs, so many bright days calling, drifting by in the open sun.

Never knowing how long the round would last.

Or where over the hill the ringing went on.

All I am left with is a wish for a song.

One that I knew, that was true. One you could sing with me.

And love me through as much as that song.

And love you in return, to be yours, always.

I wanted to give you music. But the music hides from me. And I can’t make it stay.

But love knows its secret song. It hides it in the dawn and the silences and the smoky air.

And you will not forget.