I Never Told You

I never told you. I never told you that that book you read me? I have no idea what happened. Instead the cadences of your voice roll up and down in my eardrums. I laid my head in the corner of your arm and you softly spoke the written words. Like a fairytale, we create memories that jump from the mouth to the mind and far beyond in the soft land of realities past.

In the tiny space between my ears and my thoughts lies a little niche. A cranny filled with stories your voice tells. Stories of mornings warm and milky. Those are ones with the gruff leather cover. And stories of afternoons, languishing in the sheets, pretending to cower from the cold. Excuses to be held. These are the ones covered in flannel beneath beige wrapping. And the nights. Hot metal all at once burning and freezing. Your voice. In its leather, in its flannel, in its candlelight softness. Your voice is the story.

I know what note bliss sings. I know the minor key of telephone whispers filled with aching. I know the major shift to delight and tease. I know the Aminor that says, Can I ask you something? And the Bflat that giggles with embarrassment. Our love and memories sing a symphony of Beethoven, a never ending philharmonic concert that maybe even Mozart would of bowed his head in agreement.

And you are not a musician. and maybe you wont understand.

But you know how to love. And in this lies the key.

( This photo isn't mine, but I really like it)