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And then I sang,

and they listened

In a room where the faint smell of cigarettes

lingered above a muggy June carpet

and outside, wet pavement breathed

underneath red taillights,

and green trees lined the road

as fog hung low in a purple grey sky.

I felt like I could both laugh, and cry at how you were there too,

aching in my chest, proud and happy.

And I just wish you had told me where you used to have to go everyday.

Because tonight, my voice cracked on the first high note

of the chorus I wrote,

wavering and slightly unsure.

Parts of me scared

but I stayed, and the tone evened out, as I held on and it eased in,

and everyone else-They stayed, too.

And the singer/songwriter in the room, she said “fuckin’ beau-i-fu”

in a gorgeous British accent

that thought no less of my shaky start

and could make anything sound like porcelain.

And I just want to tell no-one else more than you.