The thunder of the music in her ears.
As it roars her head finally, finally clears.
She’s come so far. She’s come so far.
Still playing her favorite teal guitar.
Dark of the club, not even a light show.
If she were to cry, the cheering wouldn’t know.
No longer smoke filled places, like in her youth.
Even if he was here, they wouldn’t sneak a smoke on the roof.
The crashed car. The headlight pointing to the black air.
Crying, wiping the blood from his face with her long hair.
The black stained red, a veil that he passed through.
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Our world isn’t through!”
And the music is a lulling dragon whose fire is cool.
In it’s teeth the peace of her voice can finally rule.
His ashes and his grave spun into a melancholy thread.
If she still loves him, still feels him near, he isn’t dead.
And the ringing in her ears, the thumping in her breast,
this gentle monster still the exorcist that soothes the best.
And still her teal guitar, that she bought when he bought his own,
still bright in this dark place, still the devoted weight, tender millstone.