Voice.

*a little writing exercise. I put on a piece of music that an acquaintance once sang a long time ago and just let my fingers run wild. I want to write and I want to get better at it. This is what I felt. Music by the one and only Sulyn. Thank you for the inspiration*

Her voice is raw.

It hums with a resonance that tugs at my ears, begging to be listened to. Oh, heavens. She is a beautiful singer.

The dulcet tones floats on top of the piano keys that she sits at and plays on. A shy drummer taps out a hesitant heartbeat.

Her fingers dance, so smoothly. It skips like water trickling over a quiet brook. There is a pregnant pause and then her voice breaks the silence. A drop into a calm, still pool. The ripples reach out for their brethren on the shore.

I've forgotten how much I love that voice.

And she growls into her music, telling a story. She smiles quietly to herself as she tickles out the accompaniment to her tune.

"Would you come for a walk with me?" she sings. "But if its too late, its okay."

She talks about life, in a sing song way. About how you would go down and have a coffee at the little cafe down the road where they steam their milk just so and make cute little hearts with the foam. And the two of you can sit in the sun on a bench and sip that coffee and not notice when the sun decides to play hide and seek behind the clouds and the sky starts to cry.

The music fades now.

Single notes play every now and again. She sounds like she is mourning. It speaks of a quiet afternoon. Your head on my lap. You resting. Eyes closed. Me running my fingers through your hair. Peace, the moment seems to say. Shalom.

Again, her repetoire that her voice offers amazes me. She wraps each syllable in a golden piece of silk and bundles it away.

"So here I am," she grins.

Here we are, my muse. Here we stand, at the edge of the sea. What would you like me to do? Run into the surf? Watch the waves caress my toes. The water is getting cold as the sun says goodbye near the horizon. It sparkles its farewell.

And we stand waving to the golden orb and we say hello to the silver globe that rises on the eventide.

'Tis madness, I know. But the night is too good to let go. The breeze ruffles through the tufts that is the remainders of my youth. The night's silence speaks volumes. The dim incandescent bulb strains to illuminate the gloom but it fails. Its okay.

I do not need the light to see.

I need your voice. And your warmth. And the dulcet tones of her singing in the atmosphere. And you, cuddled up against me, as we watch the rain smash itself endless against the window panes.

Gone too soon...
Miss it more than I should...