Love in the Air

I want to speak like a mandolin to you. I want the words to be plucked on my tongue and fly sweetly to you. A bass and an aching violin. I want to be all of these things at once, moving in and out of myself, weaving you love in the air. I can do none of them. I want to write you music, sing you music, be the instrument.

Maybe if I was a Civil War soldier. Then maybe I could write the words I want to say and it would be almost like hearing music, sitting by a fire early in the morning, a cresting sun. The soldiers then wrote so musically. But maybe I have Ken Burns to thank for that.

I am a dull pencil. I am not sharp. I am not attractive. And I am no musician, and certainly no instrument. I have only this voice. But maybe if I use it enough, and say all the wretched words first, whay will be left is what I want to say. And you could imagine that. I am asking for your help, to work, to listen between the lines, and for that to be enough.