Wandering through her past
Her voice belonged to a siren. It shackled me with awe as she sang while cleaning the dishes and my eyes locked to her hips as she swayed to the rhythm of her own tune and glided about the room. Some evenings she would sing while she played her father's guitar. Having long since ceased singing to me, she sang to sing, often wandering through her past one bridge at time. As I sat across the room pretending to read, nonchalantly distancing myself from reminders of my artistic inadequacy, I listened to her songs, wondering who she wrote them for.