Song, lyric [pretension]

by gurdeepmattu

You never sang for me.  Despite my entreaties, my pleading.  My repeated questions, at random, at moments I thought you might reciprocate.  I sang snatches of song all the time: here and there, along with a track, humming as we promenaded awkwardly across a city you hated [disclosure: interpretative].  I sang in the shower when I was happy [aspectual hook, past tense (possible lie)].  I played the songs my old band had put onto record.  You sat there, dumb as a stone, and you never sang, for me.  Except for one time, one time I remember very clearly.  You were cooking, in the kitchen, the door shut, against whatever I was doing [metaphor, only partially untrue].

I think I had music on, of some sort.  There was always something playing, always my choice [heavy-handed; domineering; suffocating].  I turned it down, maybe, I can’t remember [selective memory when indulging in nostalgia]. You never played a single damn track off the collected ABBA I bought you [demonstrative request], but this was on Spotify, on your laptop, in the kitchen, door shut against whatever I was doing [repetition, cohesion], when you felt some kind of contentment.  And you were singing.

And it was nice, and your voice was pleasant, and I listened.  I listened for as long as I could bear. I didn’t listen all that long.  Because you never sang for me.

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