The song he played, the undulating melody shot through with rough mourning and rich darkness, slid through her body on waves of uncertainty. She felt his notes in her toes, his vibrations in her skull. Yet he had no words, only guitar riffs to tell his tale.
“I wrote this for you,” he said, his language bursting with liquid imaginings. The music hummed through her, searing it into her bones. “But I don’t have the words.”
Her mind spun like gold as she remembered all the lines she penned for him, the poetry of his mouth, the prose of his smile. Her bookshelves ran over with letters she had never sent. Sweetly, so scared, lightheaded from the swell of the music, the sound of his voice, she said, “I have the words. They have been waiting for your music.”