Posts tagged with "women"

the lives of songs

She told me she tried to find this album I used to put on when we were hud­dled in the dark­ness. The prob­lem was that she could only remem­ber the cov­er, and it was after we stopped talk­ing for the third time or some­thing cause oth­er­wise she would have asked.

Then she was in Chapters one day. This book of best albums of the 2000s fell down, and there it was, Ágætis byr­jun, open at the page. “What are the chances?”, she asked me.

Sigur Rós Ágætis byrjun

I used to think of her lis­ten­ing to the songs I gave her with anoth­er guy and grow jeal­ous. But I could nev­er say I did­n’t have my own mem­o­ries asso­ci­at­ed with that album, lying between a wall and warm body on a bed swollen with cov­ers in New Jersey. I watched Jón Þór Birgisson sing into the pick­ups of his gui­tar, his ethe­re­al voice gen­tly mak­ing the strings trem­ble, in a sum­mer romance so long ago.

That was my intro­duc­tion to Sigur Rós, and in the same way I passed this album on to her. It made me feel so vul­ner­a­ble to be next to her in those moments (whether she real­ized it or not). Every time it came on was an emo­tion­al flash­back, a short-cir­cuit to this part of my past about which I’ve told so few.

I used to hope she kept the songs I gave her to her­self, and that she did­n’t use them to woo anoth­er guy the way I had always tried to with her. Perhaps I was a lit­tle pos­ses­sive about my music and some­what judg­men­tal on who I deemed to be deserv­ing enough to hear it. Eventually I real­ized that it’s not fair of me to feel that way. She had shared so many songs with me in turn, giv­ing me as much as I’d giv­en to her, and I’ve since passed those songs on to oth­ers.

Now I won­der who else will even­tu­al­ly expe­ri­ence these songs, and what mem­o­ries of their own they’ll have when they hear them.

Sometimes I wonder if you're bored like me.

Sitting at home on a ran­dom night, caught between the com­fort of your room and the stim­u­la­tion of peo­ple. You once told me I could always call when I said I did­n’t want to be a hyp­ocrite, but I don’t know if that’s true any­more. It’s been a while. I won­der if you ever think about me, and if you do, whether it’s with fond­ness, dis­taste, or indif­fer­ence.

By now you’ve prob­a­bly fig­ured out that I can nev­er be the one to pick up the phone first, which is why it’s hard for me to believe we’ll ever see each oth­er again. I wish there was a way we could just talk, and not have things get com­pli­cat­ed, and not have to wor­ry about you or me or any­thing between us.

Sometimes I think I’m strong enough, but I think of that call and that voice and the burn­ing across my skin, and even­tu­al­ly I real­ize I’m only fool­ing myself. Just mak­ing excus­es to see you again cause I miss you so much. I’m not yet used to the fact that I can’t share these songs, these expe­ri­ences, this hap­pi­ness with you, and it’s left me feel­ing incom­plete.

Even now it feels like there was so much left unsaid. Like my words were always inad­e­quate to the bur­den of my heart cause I was nev­er able to con­vince you of how spe­cial you were and how much I loved you. But time is teach­ing me that you knew, and that noth­ing would ever have been enough.

Not long ago, I real­ized it’s not just you I can’t stop think­ing about, it’s all of my past, from insignif­i­cant instances to major events. If only you weren’t one of the only things worth remem­ber­ing, and I was­n’t try­ing so des­per­ate­ly to for­get.

You were supposed to be the rest of my life.

My hap­pi­ly ever after. My crunchy peanut but­ter soul mate.

I think of you every day, but it’s nev­er a con­scious act. More of a reflex in a con­tin­u­ous stream of thoughts: the cov­er of the album that’s play­ing, this tea is get­ting cold, maybe I’ll go out tomor­row, the way you looked the first time I saw you with your glass­es on, I need to buy floss, the humid­i­fi­er needs refill­ing…

It’s nev­er some­thing I can help. There are reminders of you in the colours of every sun­rise, in the cho­rus­es of my songs, in the back of my mind when I’m left to my own devices. You became a habit I nev­er want­ed to break.

I for­got to give you this one too. It was sup­posed to be us. We were sup­posed to own the sky, to be it’s chil­dren, danc­ing under clouds you’d lat­er paint. Sharing head­phones on a bus, me in blue cardi­gan, you with fab­u­lous hair. Walking to the gro­cery store on sum­mer nights; you’d cook, I’d do the dish­es. Catching up on each oth­ers days before drift­ing off to sleep. All the every­day stuff that would nev­er feel ordi­nary again if your hand was in mine.

It was­n’t sup­posed to hap­pen like this.

I still think of you.

And how bright your hair was when you were recall­ing the ter­ri­ble date you had last night. The guy would­n’t stop putting him­self down. “Someone’s inse­cure”, I said. You agreed. I only knew because I used to do the same thing (but I did­n’t tell you that).

You would­n’t stop bit­ing your low­er lip — how I want­ed to stop that fid­get with a kiss — and flip­ping that gold­en wave back over your head with clum­sy lit­tle fin­gers.

As wrong as we were for each oth­er, I still want­ed to give it a try. To see what it would be like to sing with you in your car, even if you thought lis­ten­ing to rock gave you an edge cause you were such a girly-girl. To find out if you could ever love me as much as you love your­self.

I nev­er asked you out cause I was too proud to make the first move. In this phase where I was tired of being the one to make the effort. Probably for the best. You’d nev­er believe that I avoid you as much as you me. Did you ever tell him why you don’t come around any­more?

I still think of you. Then again, I think about pret­ty much every­one who’s been in my life from time to time, in some capac­i­ty.

You’re the only one I hate think­ing of.

Heard you got pregnant.

Maybe you faked it, cause you had a con­ve­nient mis­car­riage when you got thrown out. Now you’re real­ly preg­nant, and the new guy is let­ting you stay.

It could have been me, they said. That was my first thought too. But I’m not weak and you’re not here.

Until last week, I still had your num­ber in my phone, but to be hon­est, it was just so I could know not to pick up. Sorry I nev­er called. I thought about it once or twice, when I want­ed a per­son to play with cause so many songs sound bet­ter with a har­mo­ny. But I’m too good at com­ing up with rea­sons to be alone. If I saw you again, I’d ask how you remem­bered the chords of your friend’s song cause I can’t even remem­ber the words to some of my favourite tracks. And if you ever record­ed your­self singing a song for your old grand­pa to see.

I still have that out-of-focus pho­to of us on the couch, look­ing into the cam­era, you on top. I’m prob­a­bly nev­er going to do any­thing with it.