I remember he once told me about his love for lyrics. How the words of a song spoke to him like poetry. How he could imagine himself in the musician's place, writing those words, for he felt them, for he could relate to them.
I remember I used to wonder what his playlist consisted of. To him, it was more a place to hide his ghosts than a mere collection of tunes. I remember I used to look for the ghosts lurking in the shadows of his eyes when he sang to me or even hummed to himself. Because I wanted to know it, I wanted to know it all. The faces he saw when he closed his eyes as the music played on, the words he remembered, the moments he reminisced. I wanted to hear that song about a thousand tragic endings, listen to it, savour it, remember it, worship it.
I remember when I first saw him I noticed how haunted his eyes were. And I was drawn to him, drawn to the ghosts, drawn to the mystery, drawn to the one who was broken and untamed still.
Now all I do is wonder if now I am one of those ghosts, if I'm there, drifting between those notes. I hope so. I hope that each time my song plays, it breaks his heart, that I am there, whispering into his ear, just like he is to me, each time his song plays, finding his way to my soul, sabotaging my heart from the inside.
